The family stopped eating meals together. Not that one could place the blame for that malady squarely on the shoulders of enhanced VR. The lack of shared meals The lack of shared meals, sighed Justin, was a sad fact long before people were adventuring into realms of home-based VR was a sad fact long before people were adventuring into realms of home-based VR. No, the real red flag was the fact that the family stopped eating meals-in the real sense of the word. Why bother to eat real food when all the food in the VR tasted better, never made you fat or sick, and was always what you wanted? So Justin watched as the Sinclairs began to snack on inexpensive, prepared nutrition bars and drink just enough water so that they could jump back into their recliners, sit back, fade out, and head for their next great quest.

What happened next should have been obvious. Or, at least, it should have been obvious to Justin. However, he was so invested in "his" family's slow, downward spiral that he failed to notice.

The world's economy collapsed.

There were a number of dynamics at play, chief of which was the fact that a vast amount of the world's GDP was driven by entertainment and advertising-both of which had been wiped out by the advent of cheaper and better VR. Why go to a movie, take a cruise, visit a museum or an amusement park when VR could do it not only better, but for free? Within three years tourism, a main cash cow for third-world countries, was all but dead, and as a result much of that world was on the brink of starvation. More amazing was that no one in the first world bothered to notice or, if they did, seemed to care. Because what did it matter that one half of the world was starving or, perhaps, even closer to home, that the house was foreclosed on, or that someone had their car repossessed? So they couldn't buy new clothes or eat in fancy restaurants. All their problems were simply a VR rig away from disappearing. And regarding advertising-advertise what and to whom? Brain-drained bodies lying comatose on recliners? Initially, the VR revolution was a boon to advertisers. After all, they had a captive audience and could deliver the goods however they imagined. But that only worked as long as the people doing the "experiencing" bothered to leave the VR rig. When the incentive to stay in the rig was greater than the incentive to leave it, advertising took a nosedive, and with it a significant portion of the economy.

Young couples were packing up their meager belongings and moving back in with Mom and Dad or, in many cases, joining cheap communal apartments. Thrift stores did a bang-up business, and pasta manufacturers were bringing home the bacon, as spaghetti became the meal du jour for all seven days of the week. In VR you ate steak and lobster and lived in a palace and had sex with the most beautiful men and women imaginable. It was all that mattered.

Justin heard a baby crying.

At first it was a far-off sound, but it became clearer. Preston's baby was crying. He was hungry and in need of some human contact. But for the fact that the program had ended, Justin wondered who, if anyone, would have come to the infant's rescue. Preston got up from the rig and went to the baby. Thank God Thank God, thought Justin. He saw Preston walk past the crying infant and into the run-down, seldom-used kitchen. On the table was a box with a two-week-old postmark. No one had bothered to open it, but Justin remembered that Preston's wife had reminded him about it, and promptly disappeared into the rig. That was hours ago.

As the baby's cries turned into screams, Justin/Preston opened the box. Justin was shocked when he realized what it was. He even tried to prevent Preston from picking it up, but he couldn't. His life and Preston's had become so symbiotic he'd forgotten his status as an ensnared voyeur. Now he'd have to sit back and watch the horror unfold, powerless to do a thing about it.

Preston pulled a VR head rig and three crystals from the box. The head rig was tiny. Preston put it down on the filthy table and picked up the accompanying brochure. It told him all about the specialty programs designed to make any baby happy. Put it away! Destroy it! Put it away! Destroy it! howled Justin hopelessly into the void. But with horrifying predictability Preston went to his screaming baby, placed the rig over his small head, and activated it. He put the crystals into the proper slots on the VR machine and watched as his little boy slowly stopped crying and his body went limp. Moments later the two corners of the baby's mouth pursed themselves into a dreamy, distant smile. howled Justin hopelessly into the void. But with horrifying predictability Preston went to his screaming baby, placed the rig over his small head, and activated it. He put the crystals into the proper slots on the VR machine and watched as his little boy slowly stopped crying and his body went limp. Moments later the two corners of the baby's mouth pursed themselves into a dreamy, distant smile.

Though Justin knew it wouldn't do an iota of good, he continued to scream.

Goddamn you, Preston! Can't you see you're killing him? He'll never grow up or become anything on that damned machine! You're giving him the only world he can survive in and IT'S NOT REAL!

But Preston couldn't hear him. And, sadly, thought Justin, he probably wouldn't even if he could. Preston sat in his chair and put on his rig and joined his wife as they flew through heaven with angels' wings and made love in the clouds. Preston may have told his wife the baby was OK, but maybe he didn't.

Preston lost his job.

No one was buying much of anything except for VR programs, and most people had the ones they wanted. Plus, copying them was easy. It was just crystal, quantum sequencing, and light. But Preston had a plan. He moved his family into his parents' old house. They'd died years before, leaving him a tiny home on a small plot of land. All four children slept in the same room, but they didn't mind. They didn't really "live" there.

Preston barely noticed the war in the Middle East. Apparently some Islamic fundamentalist terrorist group had dumped a delayed replicating nerve toxin in Israel's national water carrier. The Israelis didn't figure out the cure until half their population, a little over four and a half million souls, were dead. Since the government wasn't sure who to blame, and since so many groups/countries proudly claimed responsibility, the Israelis decided to teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget. On a cold winter's morning exactly two weeks after half the country lay dead and buried, what was left of the ruling coalition of the Israeli Knesset gave the order to hit all their enemies with a broad nuclear weapon strike. By midday every major Middle Eastern city was flattened and simmering in piles of rubble, debris, and radioactive dust. And, just for good measure, the Israelis hit the oil fields of Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, the U.A.E., Libya, and Oman. Those bombs were particularly powerful and dirty. Any fields not totally obliterated were turned into radioactive pools of muck. Of course, by then not many countries needed Arab oil. The United States was no longer importing it. Transportation, whether by air, sea, or road, had diminished to practically a trickle.

The system was breaking down.

While the first world was overdosing on VR, the third world had committed suicide. And while Justin realized that close to four hundred million people had died in a week, Preston didn't seem to notice.

In the end, hardly anyone noticed. Shortly thereafter India, Pakistan, and China committed mutual nuclear suicide. The dreaded radioactive winter happened, and crops died around the world. An info virus was released that wiped out much of the world's data systems. And those most qualified to destroy the insidious bug were lost, deep in their own VR dreams.

Preston's family was hungry.

When he finally did get around to looking for food, he realized how bad it had gotten. Many of the houses in his neighborhood were standing vacant, and what stores remained had mostly empty shelves. The owners of the few still open seemed surprised to see him. They'd assumed he'd become a viricide, a recently coined phrase indicating suicide by VR.

Even crime seemed to be pointless. Though most houses were unlocked, laid bare for anyone wishing to walk in and take the lot, no one bothered. Not only was there little or no market for the goods to be found inside, but any petty thief could be a godfather in the realms of VR. On a few of the walls Justin/Preston saw the spray-painted words GONE TO ALASKA. One old store clerk said it still seemed to be working up "there," referring to the forty-ninth state. But now it was bitterly cold down in southern California. And it was still August. Preston couldn't begin to think about what Alaska would be like. Besides, he knew his wife and kids would never survive the journey. They could barely make it out of the house.

Preston/Justin was looking at his family. For the first time he noticed how bone-thin they'd become. How tired and frail they all were. They had no car, and there didn't seem to be enough fuel for cars anyway. In the two weeks he was out looking for work, food, and hope, it had gotten noticeably colder. There was even frost on his lawn's dead grass in the morning. Finally he managed to get on what was left of the Internet and found a government depot giving out old stored food supplies. He woke his family up and had them eat the first good meal they'd had in months. It was canned, boxed, and preserved well past the recommended dates, but at least it was real, and at least it contained real carbohydrates, real proteins, and real fats.

They went back into the VR.

The next time Preston woke them up he told them he had great news. He'd found a job working for the government. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to get them fed well. After a few weeks the children were starting to look better, and his wife even began to smile again. The food he brought home wasn't great, but it was better than that army depot stuff he'd forced them to eat months ago. It turned out the nuclear winter hadn't been as bad as feared, and the government had had a certain amount of success in bringing in some crops. Things were still tough, but the country was finally pulling itself back together. The Sinclairs even spent less time in VR and more time as a family. Justin was glad that, as bad as VR had been for the country, at least Preston and his his family seemed to have rid themselves of it. family seemed to have rid themselves of it.

Justin's senses began to fade out. He felt the tingling in his extremities, and his world again began to go black. Thank God Thank God, he thought, as he began to go under. He was happy to get out of this miserable world.

The world faded back in.

It was, noticed Justin, the same miserable world he'd just left. But this time Justin was himself ... sort of. He was free of Preston's body and able to move at will. When he looked at his hand it appeared to be translucent, almost ghostlike. He found a mirror in the Sinclairs' house, now so familiar to him, and took a look at his own face. It had been so long since he'd seen it, he'd almost forgotten what he looked like. He heard sounds from the VR room. Ironically, thought Justin, it used to be called "the living room." He entered silently.

Preston was working from a crumpled piece of paper with shaking hands. Justin ran to the kitchen and saw the remains of the army depot meal on the table. Justin realized he'd been had. Things hadn't been getting better. Preston had lied or had programmed the machine to lie for him. He ran back to the VR room and saw Preston put the finishing touches on setting up the independent power-grid system. It would be enough, Justin saw, to power the VR apparatus for a few more weeks. Justin also noticed that the software's exit protocols were disabled and would, if triggered, run a VR program called "Things Are Looking Up," the VR program of choice for viricide. It was an infamous VR crystal that bypassed the brain's overriding desire for food. In short, those who ran the program went to play and never woke up. Their bodies would be found, if anyone bothered to stop by, withered and emaciated, covered in urine and feces. And the final stroke of the macabre ordeal would be the smiles still plastered on their sunken, hollowed faces. Preston began to disconnect his family's feeding tubes one by one.

"No!" screamed Justin, "No!"

Preston continued with his awful task.

"No, no, no!"

Preston looked up, momentarily distracted.

Justin, now sobbing, tried lunging at Preston, only to pass right through. Resigned and exhausted from his powerlessness, Justin watched in horror as Preston looked around at what was left of his once thriving and boisterous household. With a heavy sigh Preston sat down in his recliner, placed the VR apparatus over his head, and joined his family for one last happy dream. The dream Justin had been fooled into believing.

"Don't do it," Justin whispered repeatedly. His mind was going into shock. The words slipped out of his mouth like a mantra of the condemned. He stood unmoving, watching in detached dismay at the crime taking place before him. The room was now silent except for the sound of the VR machine's humming and the soon to be murdered spirits' labored breathing-killed by the lotus flower of VR.

He wished to God the room would fade away, but it didn't. He even tried to leave, but he couldn't. He was trapped, forced to bear witness. The program was not designed to grant his desires-it was designed to destroy them. And so he stood there for days watching as the Sinclairs wasted away in their recliners. He hoped the VR dreams that Preston had chosen for them were good ones. It was all he could hope for. One by one their breathing stopped. The machines they were attached to screeched in alarm and, like the occupants in their "care," shut themselves down.

Justin was not allowed to leave the program until the last of them died.

It was the baby.

Preston had forgotten to disconnect the infant's feeding tube, enabling him to hold on for a few days longer than the rest of his family. Watching the baby die slowly made Justin's last few hours in the world of VR the most excruciating and painful he'd ever experienced. When the tiny chest finally stopped heaving, and the baby lay motionless for well over an hour, then and only then did the room fade to black.

When Justin woke up he was in the same VR recliner he'd started in back at the mall. This time, however, Neela was in the room hovering above him. She was looking very real and, by virtue of her familiar face, beautiful beyond words. Justin was never so glad to see anyone in his entire life. Even more, he reckoned, than when he awoke from his three-hundred-year slumber. He was also extremely thirsty. As if reading his mind, Neela handed him a canteen full of fresh spring water. He gulped it down greedily, not caring that at least half of it ran down his stubbled face and onto his clothing.

"How long?" he asked, barely recognizing his own parched voice.

"You've been in the machine for over sixty hours," answered Neela. "Drink the rest ... slowly."

Justin did as he was told.

"Justin, we can leave now. Can you walk?"

He felt incredibly stiff and sore. He raised his torso off the recliner and looked himself over. He was sickened to see that he'd soiled himself-repeatedly. The smell was horrible. How could he appear before Neela like this?

"Why ... why didn't they clean me?"

"They could have," she answered with a hint of sadness.

"But chose not to," he acknowledged, then thought about it. "Got it."

Neela put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We all woke up like this, Justin. Take off your clothes." She handed him a large trash bag. "And throw them in this."

It took him about two minutes to get his aching body off the stained recliner. The atrophy in his legs was painful, but far less than it could have been had his body not been nanomodified. But atrophy was still atrophy, and even the most finely honed machines need movement to operate efficiently. The head rush was immense, and he had to sit himself down a number of times before feeling confident that he wouldn't topple over.

When he finally managed to strip down to his last article of clothing, Neela gave him what looked like a clear plastic sleeping bag and told him to climb in. He did so, hoping it was a portable shower. As soon as the bag was up over his shoulders it began to hum. He began to feel a tingling sensation and watched in amazement as every bit of filth dropped to the floor. When he realized what it was doing, he pulled the bag over his head and felt the vibrations there as well. It was strange, he thought. He couldn't say that he felt clean, just not dirty not dirty. He looked forward to getting back home so he could take a nice, long "real" shower. When the bag finally stopped humming he looked down to see the layers of filth that had collected around his ankles. As he stepped out of the shower bag it vibrated enough to clean his departing feet. Neela handed him a fresh set of clothes.

It was only once he was dressed that he finally began to notice the calibration room. It seemed to be in the same decrepit condition as Preston's house. Only half the lights worked, and most of the booths were missing or broken. Loose bits of paper lay strewn about. When Justin and Neela left the VR store he saw that the mall was in the same loathsome condition. The only lighting came down in asymmetric beams created by the jagged edges of the broken skylights above. There were also, he noticed, a few weakly lit drum fires with forlorn, wretched figures huddled around them. Broken and shattered pieces of glass were everywhere, and blowing bits of paper and refuse only added to the scene of desperate neglect. It was hard to believe this was the same mall he'd originally entered.

Justin was just about to climb up the unmoving escalator steps toward the exit when a horrible thought struck him.

"Neela, how ... how do I know I'm not still in the machine?"

Neela looked at him sadly.

He began to sweat. His face went ashen.

Neela took both his hands into hers and looked into his eyes.

"You will have to trust me, Justin. You're not."

"But how can I really know, Neela? How can anyone really know? I could still be stuck in there right now, dying and crapping and pissing, and not know it. This," he said, pointing to the dilapidated structure around him, "could just be part of the program."

"It's me, Justin," she implored. "The real real me." me."

He looked around some more and decided he had no choice but to trust her.

"It's evil, Neela, the whole thing is ... evil."

Neela looked at him, nodding in empathy.

"Now, Justin ... now now you understand." you understand."

7 Aftermath

It was only later that Justin realized what made the first two days after his visit to the virtual reality museum so unique-he'd been left almost entirely alone. Not only by his friends and associates, not only by the usual hordes of fans that were to be found around every corner, but also by the press. Even a few buzzing mediabots kept their distance. It seemed that all parties agreed to give the Unincorporated Man his space. Sadly, he was so absorbed by what he'd experienced he didn't get the chance to enjoy the quiet time. And he was never to get another two days like it again. At least, not without going through incredible time, effort, and expense.

Trying to make small talk, Neela had explained to Justin the evolution of the VR dictates, protocols, and museum. She'd explained how Alaska had emerged as the sole power on Earth by virtue of having the largest intact population. And they managed that because most Alaskans, who'd never been known to suffer fools gladly, saw something horribly foolish in enhanced VR. In time more and more people looked to the Alaskans as a source of protection and rebirth, and it wasn't long after that that the Alaskan Confederation was born. It grew fast and over time, it grew large. One of the first things the emerging Alaskan power did when it established control of an area was to insist that every person sit through a VR simulation comparable to what Justin had just experienced. Back then, Neela explained, the simulation was done on both adults and children. "But nowadays," she continued, "it's only done on children." Children apparently didn't rebound as quickly as adults, and it was not uncommon for it to take weeks for them to recover. (Neela was proud of needing only eight days before she was able to talk about her experience with a counselor.) So, she'd opined, Justin would probably only need a couple of days. He was, after all, a confident and assured man.

Justin needed about ten minutes. The first thing he did after exiting the museum was to drag Neela on a short trip to the L.A. orport.

"Where we headed?" she'd asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Luxembourg," he'd answered stiffly, booking two tickets to one of the Terran Confederation's oldest cities. Neela didn't ask any questions after that. She went along. They made a beeline for their private t.o.p., sat down, and only had to wait a few minutes until the pod was lifted gingerly into the atmosphere. This time, Neela observed, there was no glee or wonder in Justin's expression, no apparent sense of excitement that had always been evident whenever he flew. Even more interesting, he didn't fiddle with the environmental data pad. This time he'd simply accepted the bland and nonchallenging default setting. He remained withdrawn for the extent of the flight. Thank God it's a short trip Thank God it's a short trip, thought Neela.

As the t.o.p. came out of orbit and began its descent into the medieval citadel of Luxembourg, Neela made out the imposing rocks of the Petrusse and Alzette valleys. It was obvious to her why those rocks constituted an almost idyllic natural defense for the ancient fortress built upon the promontory now coming into view. The t.o.p. landed gingerly, swallowed up by the old battlement. Neela and Justin quickly departed.

From the city of Luxembourg Justin instructed a driver to take them down south to the remnants of a small town called Galgenberg. As they flew, Justin continued his quiet brooding, barely saying two words to Neela. She was surprised, but more curious. Everyone reacts differently Everyone reacts differently, she thought, and given his recent sixty-hour ordeal he could easily have been catatonic and given his recent sixty-hour ordeal he could easily have been catatonic. She figured she'd take him back to New York and wait until he came out of his room, ready to talk. Of course, there was no person currently living who'd gone through the museum as an adult, so she accepted the fact that anything could happen. This little excursion was a case in point. If not a bit strange, considered Neela, at least it made for an interesting day trip.

They finally landed in the tranquil forest of Cattenom, just outside the once rustic but abandoned town of Galgenberg. The flyer situated itself on a grassy knoll about fifty yards from a moss-covered embankment draped in small rivulets of white, flowing sap. To the naked eye it appeared to be a little hill, but Justin knew better. The "hill" was in fact an overgrown entrance leading into the cold, twisting hallways of an ancient underground fortification quietly rusting away in ignominy. They'd arrived at the once famous gates of Galgenberg, one of the few surviving remnants of the disastrously ineffective Maginot Line. These gates, with their two turrets of artillery, were part of an ancient string of fortresses that had failed as a defense against Nazi Germany in World War II. But for Justin they'd offered a unique opportunity at the turn of the millennium.

"What are we doing here?" asked Neela, no longer able to contain her curiosity.

"Checking out a beta site," he answered, again with no discernible emotion. Then he leaped through the walls of the vehicle and headed straight for the hill. Neela followed quickly. There was a slight chill in the air as the evening approached and a gentle but determined wind whipped across the knoll, making the blond parched grass sway back and forth to its sporadic rhythm. It took only a few seconds to traverse the twenty or so yards to the hill's entrance. It was now more obvious from the exposed slabs of concrete that this hill was in fact man-made. There was a gated steel door that was slightly ajar. Justin looked back at Neela, tested the door, and saw that it was unlocked. "Hold on a minute," he said, as he entered the darkened corridor. A moment later he reemerged. "Does the chauffeur have a flashlight?"

"Not exactly. But I think I know what you mean," she answered. "How far into this 'beta site' do we need to go?"

Justin gave it a thought. "Not sure, but I'd say at least two hundred feet, uh, seventy meters, more or less."

Neela nodded yes and proceeded back to the flyer. Justin watched as she talked to the driver while pointing toward the hill where he stood. The chauffeur went to the vehicle's hood, popped it open, and pulled out a small cylindrical can. Neela took it and began to shake it vigorously as she started walking back toward Justin.

"Uh, what exactly is that?" he asked as she approached.

"It's our version of a flashlight. Just point to where you want some light and it'll take care of the rest."

Justin shrugged. "How long does it last?"

Neela looked down at the can and read the label. "This one, three hours. Will that be enough time?"

"More than enough."

They entered the bunker. The space they were standing in was some sort of antechamber, where one apparently waited before going into the underground passageway itself. Surrounding them on both sides were large solid slabs of concrete, and facing them directly was an old steel door with a large metal pinwheel on it. Justin tested it out. Other than the shrill sound it made as he turned it, the wheel still worked. He turned it some more until he felt the door release from the frame. He swung the massive slab of metal out toward him, and as he did it let out a deafening squeak.

"Could use a little oil," he suggested, "but not bad for a four-hundred-year-old door."

Justin pointed toward an ancient sconce where a carbide lamp had illuminated the way centuries ago. "There," he said, indicating where the "light" should go. Neela approached and sprayed the antique light fixture with the can she'd received from the chauffeur. The area around the sconce began to glow, dispersing enough light to see at least three feet. Justin looked at the technological feat in admiration, and pointed to the next sconce. This went on as they went deeper and deeper into the network. In a strange way the tunnel was being lit almost exactly as a French soldier would have seen it nearly four hundred years earlier.

The tunnels were wide. Spacious enough Spacious enough, thought Neela, that four or five people could walk side by side without bumping into a wall that four or five people could walk side by side without bumping into a wall. There was a moderately dank smell, but not too bad. The curved ceiling above was a patchwork of reddish brown hues, hanging flakes of dirty white paint, and pockets of corrosion. Positioned about two-thirds up on both sides of the wall were steel tubes of various shapes and sizes running the length of the passageway. As they walked deeper into the void, Neela could feel narrow channels embedded in the concrete beneath her feet. It was only when she looked backward to see their now illuminated path that she realized the channels were in fact rail tracks.

"It's how they moved ordnance and supplies," he said, anticipating her question.

"Just how big is this place?" she asked.

"This one section," he said, looking around, "is part of a larger one that runs for about twenty-seven miles ... which would be, I guess, around forty-three kilometers ... but don't worry, we're not going nearly that far."

They'd already walked about twenty yards down a long corridor. When they came to a T in their path, they hung a right and went another thirty yards, until they hit a long, wide corridor. They hit another T and went left another ten yards, at which point the tunnel split.

"Which way?" asked Neela.

"I'm thinking." A pause. "It's been a while." He stood scratching his head. "Left," he said, "definitely left."

They took the left tunnel for another six or seven yards, and finally stopped in front of a section of wall that appeared to have been damaged by an explosion. There was a gaping hole behind which was a metal door-slightly ajar, facing inward. Neela noticed immediately that the revealed door was not of the style or shape of all the previous ones they'd encountered. On closer inspection Neela saw that the "hole" she thought was damaged was unfinished construction.

"This was one of your treasure vaults."