The Reality Exchange: The Novelettes of T. E. Mark - Vol VI

By T.E. Mark

Life changes for time travelling journalist Dale Santos, who scripts events before they happen for the state-run media corporation, when he witnesses his girlfriend’s contract murder 26.5 hours in the future. SCRIPTED

Sol Dyson, an investigator with the world’s top control agency, has been handed an assignment by The Reality Exchange – the world’s repository of stored minds for future insertion into robotic hosts. His investigation will lead him to a disturbing revelation: Someone at the Exchange is inserting vast numbers of these stored consciousnesses into the minds of living people. THE REALITY EXCHANGE

The world is on the brink of total war when an alien machine intelligence selects a geophysicist and computer scientist as subjects for a type of reverse Turing test – to determine if we’re capable of evolving. Their fate, and those of everyone on Earth, will depend on their performance. “e”

In this stand-alone episode 02 of BINARY, (Ep 01 released in August of 2020), Justin Quinn, modified from birth to control computers with his mind, is again thrust into the middle of a secret war between the NSA, the Pentagon and the White House. BINARY 02

“Creative genius. This is Sci-Fi at its best.” The Post Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. Mark
• Release date: Apr 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005657512

T.E. Mark

T. E. Mark is an Anglo-American Science Writer, Screenwriter and Editor. He has studied Architecture, Music and Literature in the UK and in the US and has been penning stories since childhood. His first novel, Fractured Horizons, set in the wonderful of Bath England, was written at the age of 12.Mark has written novels for young and adult readers and a selection of science articles for national and international magazines. He also writes and edits academic papers on a variety of subjects for universities, governmental and non-governmental organisations.Follow T. E. Mark at:temarkauthor.wordpress.commthomasmark.wordpress.comtemarkurbanscratch.wordpress.comContact T. E. Mark at: [e-mail].

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THE REALITY

EXCHANGE

The Novelettes of T. E. Mark – Vol VI

*Screenplays also written by T. E. Mark

Text © T. E .Mark – 2021

http://temarkauthor.wordpress.com

Copyright © 2021 T. E. Mark (Mark Thomas)

Cover Illustrations by © Alexey Lesik

Cover Design © T. E. Mark

Cover Preparation © Manoj Kumar Jalutharia

First published in the United Kingdom, Canada, and The USA in 2021

T. E. Mark LTD

Paragon Independent Publishers LTD

https://temarkauthor.wordpress.com

[e-mail]

Mark Thomas has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1998 to be the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover images by © Alexey Lesik

Cover preparation by Manoj Kumar Jalutharia

www.fiverr.com/mkumarji

[e-mail]

The paper used in this Create Space book is made from wood grown in sustainable forests.

ISBN: 979-8724983624

FOR HILDA

CONTENTS

SCRIPTED

THE REALITY EXCHANGE

e

BINARY – 02

(1)

SCRIPTED

A MAN’S VOICE

Anarchy is a by-product of an information society. There are events our people should neither see nor hear – in a form that will incite them to commit violent or destructive acts – or cause them to lose faith in their government.

Extract 1141.8

Inter Provincial Conference – Geneva

11 Dec 2040

A MAJOR BOULEVARD – LOS ANGELES – 2042

DALE SANTOS, (early 30s), slick, the Hugo Boss suit over a university T shirt type, stands on a street corner in downtown Los Angeles. The give-a-way it’s no longer 2021 are the futuristic sky tram – glass tubes ten metres above the streets and highways carrying bullet cars riding on air at unbelievable velocities – more and taller high rises – 3-dimensional holographic adverts, some building height, and robotic cleaning machines scouring the streets, walks and building facades.

The year is 2042.

The world is united.

Regions once called states or cantons are now called Provinces.

Everything about everyone is accessible knowledge.

And the last printed book... was in July of 2031.

Dale has an electronic notepad – a stylus between his teeth – and appears to be surveying the area.

He looks at the buildings, the traffic flow, different bubble cameras planted on building facades – down at the ground. Blood stains... here... there. Everywhere.

People pass – EV cars, sleek and quiet, clog the street. The woosh of the bullet cars above is constant. No one seems to notice Dale or care as they move about. It’s as if he’s a ghost or a superimposed image into a video clip. Nothing explaining why he’s here or what he’s doing.

He brings a hand up to his chin and holds it – thinks.

SMS – STATE MEDIA SERVICES – OPERATIONS

A huge room on the 15th floor of the state-run media services corporation – called by its acronym SMS.

Lots of elaborate equipment. The entire theatre ringed in Full Immersion, Dimensionality VCDs. Technologists sit inside their own, smaller rings of these virtual monitors wearing glass, half helmets – the clear faceplates running colourful streams of data.

The room looks like NASA before a launch. NASA of the future – the tech is stunning.

In the middle are three platinum walled Iso-Cylinders rising from the floor to the ceiling. Ten metres in diameter, they’re huge like rocket thrusters and smooth, and except for windowless riveted doors, featureless.

A dark-haired woman, Production Manager SAMIRA (SAMI) SOLEDAD, (30s), in a smooth leather skirt and blazer, enters the theatre from an upper door. Sami is sharp, thin, confident and fits the executive attire.

She moves down a sloping aisle to a row of technicians, in through one virtual ring and hovers over a young tech – her eyes forward.

ON THE SCREEN – FROM INSIDE THE RING

A man’s face. Eyes closed. Electrodes attached at his temples, forehead and at the base of his neck. We zoom in. It’s Dale Santos. He looks sedate – peaceful – asleep.

Samira studies the moving graphs to the tech’s right.

‘How’s he doing?’

The young woman types – she brings the graphs to her main – moves Dale’s image to her right.

Together they study the moving data.

‘He’s in Phase four. All the way there.’

‘How long?’

‘Just over fifteen minutes.’

Samira straightens – crosses her arms in front of her. ‘A concern?’

The girl shakes her head. ‘Not yet.’

SMS – OPERATIONS THEATRE

We pull back and view the room – the other sensory isolation cylinders. Complete deprivation and isolation from sound and all wavelengths of electromagnetism. There is a desk and controller inside one of the virtual immersion rings for each.

Other techs, production people and medical personnel move in and out.

LOS ANGELES BOULEVARD (CONT’D)

Still surveying, Dale is now on the opposite corner. He thinks – looks up the street – spins – the other direction... again he looks down at the ground. He takes his i-book and scribbles notes.

He looks like a detective – or insurance adjuster. Maybe a city engineer planning a future project.

SMS – OPERATIONS

The young tech shakes her head – types.

Sami Soledad notes her concern.

‘Tell me.’

Another head shake.

‘Here is his most recent fMRI.’ She types – the image changes to a colour enhanced fMRI brain scan. ‘Here... and... here – the cortex... he’s... confused.’

‘Con... about what?’

‘I’m not... sure. Something’s wrong, or... he’s changing things, maybe... replaying an event – a second or third time.’ Shakes her head. ‘He, uhm... he tends to do that.’

Sami breathes out.

‘How are his vitals?’

She looks left – more graphs.

‘BP is up a bit. The neural activity is high – high – even for him. Neurons firing per second now are...’ She looks up at Samira. ‘... uncountable.’

Sami continues to stare. ‘Give him another ten minutes. Then pull him out.’

The girl nods and continues to watch.

INSIDE THE ISO-CYLINDER

Santos lies in the silent barrel on a gurney surrounded by monitoring equipment. He has an IV in each arm. The cylindrical room is stark white with pinpoint lights coming from somewhere high above.

He lies in a pool of diffuse brightness at the base of a gently glowing metallic tube. A tube that gives away no sense of its width, depth, or height... or that it’s even a tube.

BOULEVARD LOS ANGELES (CONT’D)

Away Dale – this odd duality clear but filled with questions – is on yet another corner looking up at a row of recently boarded windows. Well-dressed off-to-work people pass. Again he’s a spectre – completely unnoticed.

We cut to another corner. He’s there – observing, analysing, taking notes. Then across the street – another corner – another survey.

OPERATIONS FLOOR – STATE MEDIA

Samira walks away from the technicians – moves close to the first cylinder. She has a hand to her chin – looks up – focuses on the largest section of the 360-degree display ring – Dale’s face – passive – sedate. Only slight eye flutters.

‘What are you doing Dale?’

She checks her watch.

CAFÉ – LOS ANGELES (CONT’D)

Dale is at a table in an outdoor café near the intersection he’s been surveying. A paper-thin laptop lies open on the table in front of him. He types frenetically for minutes then stops. He gazes up at the corner.

The sky darkens – day becomes a hazy, dingy night.

Rioters appear – wild – angry – yelling – swinging bats or metal bars – hurling bricks – a moving swarm of aggressive humanity.

They climb on cars and begin smashing windows.

Firebombs arc the sky. Parked EVs erupt into flames.

Then the looters – wild and crazed. Store windows are quickly demolished filling the night air with sirens. They run in then out with their arms full.

Day returns. The rioters and looters are gone. It’s once again the morning off-to-work scene with Dale still at his table pounding away at his laptop – pausing periodically to scan his notes – then returning.

CLASSROOM – STATE MEDIA

An upper classroom with windows looking down on the control theatre.

Six students face MORSE CARTER, (50s), fatherly with a bit of an edge, the portly State Media administrator sitting on the edge of his desk.

‘Navigation, while outside, will take time. And practice. No one gets it the first time out. Or the second or third. You’ll only begin to realise your capabilities outside after your tenth. And only then will you be able to comprehend how much more you have to learn.’

One student, a girl with black hair and ebony brown eyes turns to the windows. The isolation cylinders – glowing like alien vessels or launch conduits to the outer planets. She looks at cylinder ONE. The control desk – the virtual ring of images surrounding it – Dale’s face from different camera angles.

‘And him?’

Morse turns, follows her gaze out the window.

‘Dale Santos?’ The others turn to the windows. ‘One of our first scripters. This is his 175th assignment.’ There’s an element of pride in his voice. Morse stands and moves behind the desk – begins filling his briefcase. He looks up placing his eyes on each of them.

‘You’ll learn much from Mr Santos. How to manipulate the environment – bring in the tools you’ll need – clothes – even how to move an episode forward or back in time.’ He locks the case. ‘This will help. Replaying a scene – an event, from different points of view, is vital when critical edits are required.’ He moves to the door. ‘Stay and watch this. You were chosen because your aptitude tests said you were good.’ They watch him pull in the door. ‘We need you to be more than good.’

The students smile, watch the heavyset man leave then return their eyes to the windows – the control floor – the iso-cylinders.

LOS ANGELES (CONT’D)

Still at his café table with a coffee to his lips, Dale peers at the corner – again the sky darkens. The rioters and looters appear – a growing mob of hundreds – thousands. The night is lit by fires pouring from parked cars – many overturned – and looted stores.

He pulls the cup away and turns to the south – a full regiment of riot-geared police – marching. A provocative display of police might and desire to restore order.

He watches – types – watches more – types more.

The sides meet directly in front of him. The battle is brutal – violent – ugly – on both sides.

Police swing glowing batons slamming rioters down to the ground. Syn-gas canisters explode – smoke is everywhere.

Running – screaming – yelling. Bursts of fire – smoke – sirens.

There’s a scuffle – three officers in a doorway across the street – partially obscured by black iron railings on the concrete steps leading down. Dale tilts his head. Something isn’t right.

He rises from his café chair, passes right through a couple trying to get away from the violence and crosses the street – focussed – ignoring the chaos.

He looks up at the simple house stuck between gargantuan high rises.

It’s odd – the house is out of place – it puzzles him. He stops and stares up at the shingled front – moss covered and filthy.

He blinks. ‘I know this.’ He looks left then right – nothing but high-rise offices and hotels. His eyes back on the house. ‘What’s it doing here?’

STATE MEDIA – OPERATIONS FLOOR

Sami stares up at an image projecting from the floor’s virtual ring – on Dale’s face in the iso-cylinder. His eyes tighten. He swallows – it looks painful.

LOS ANGELES – AT THE RAILING

Dale moves closer – looks down the steps.

The police have an older man, (50s), in their grasp. A Latin woman holds his blazer – she’s crying... trying to keep him – desperately trying to pull him from their grasp. There’s a small boy, sobbing, his face buried in her skirt.

‘Wait.’ Dale looks at the man’s face – strokes his chin. ‘Who are you?’

He looks more closely at the partially grey, well-dressed man in the doorway of this run-down house.

He takes another step down – continues to watch the man. ‘Why are you familiar? And what the hell are you doing here?’ He turns back to the street – the violent battle. ‘In the middle of this?’

Dale holds his chin – turns back to the basement apartment – notes the house number – scribbles it down and peers inside.

Little furniture – old appliances – yellowed flooring and peeling paint.

But... there are also potted plants and handmade decorations. A child’s drawings magnet stuck to the refrigerator with colourful letters. In spite of its age and the budget construction, it’s quaint. Homey. Someone with little did what they could to make this a comfortable home.

He shakes his head and starts back when...

ACROSS THE STREET

...he sets his eyes on someone moving – a girl – across the boulevard in a tan raincoat outside a store –– her eyes on him. She hurriedly turns away and starts walking.

Startled, Dale stops when he reaches the street level.

‘Hey!’

She turns – their eyes meet but only for a second. She makes a quick turn up a side street.

Dale is dumbstruck. She saw him. He climbs the final step and slips into the street – moves right through the bumper-to-bumper cars.

‘HEY!’

He makes the corner and stops – looks up at the buildings – pixilating – becoming indistinct.

‘No...’ The sky above is becoming diffuse – colourless. ‘Not yet!’

He takes off running with the world dissolving around him.

Running.

Tearing down the street.

The scene is odd.

An old photograph – fading.

A street lined with brown and grey stone apartments. People on their way to work – kids on bikes heading for school. Frozen – dissolving – fading.

He sees her... she’s there... just ahead. She’s at a corner – looks back. Her face – her eyes – her hair so black it blends in with the night... He tries to call out again, but... can’t.

Then...

CYLINDER ONE – STATE MEDIA – INSIDE

...His eyes open. He’s back... inside cylinder one at SMS. Dale looks up from his gurney – takes in the barrel shaped chamber. Still with the wires and tubes, he struggles to sit – pulling at the bedsheet. Half sitting, groggy from the drugs, he forces his feet over the side.

A clanging sound – the metal door to the isolation cylinder opens filling the room with blue-white light.

He struggles with the confusion – begins pulling out the first of the IVs.

‘Hey-hey.’ Doctor Bernard, a motherly woman of (40), moves in followed by Samira. ‘What are you doing? You shouldn’t even be...’ She takes his arm – begins pulling back the surgical tape. ‘...You shouldn’t even be moving.’

Sami Soledad moves in closer.

She squints watching him – desperate – trying to get clear.

‘What happened in there, Dale?’

‘Back in.’ His words are slurred – rushed. ‘She saw me... She...’ He shakes his head. ‘Send me back in.’

‘...You can’t... you know we can’t do that.’

He squeezes his eyes tight – steps down from the gurney – shaky – looks about to fall. Sami and the doctor each grab an arm. He looks at them – wide eyed. ‘Then I need to see Morse.’

‘Dale, you...’

Her words are lost as he makes a staggering move for the door.

ADMIN OFFICE – STATE MEDIA

‘Someone from your past?’ Morse tosses the suggestion from one side of the conversation pit in his extravagant, 195th floor office. Everything reeks of his privileged status.

Leather furniture – timber floors inlaid with oak and maple and ebony. Glass wall sculptures... by world-acclaimed artists. It’s all contemporary sleek.

He watches Dale – sprawled out opposite him in a black silk robe.

Samira enters from a high spiral staircase. She steps lightly – listening in – her heels just clicking the steps. Morse eyes her briefly.

‘I’m... not sure. I don’t... I don’t think I created her.’

‘Dale.’

‘Morse... I don’t.’

Morse sips his drink – watches him.

‘Dale... you’re leaving the Collective to get a glimpse of an event 26 hours in the future. This isn’t the first time someone’s hallucinated while on an assignment.’ Dale looks unsure – sips his wine, lies back holding the glass precariously on his chest.

‘You’re unconvinced she was your creation.’ Samira settles into a seat – eyes to Morse – then back to Dale.

Dale continues to stare at the ceiling.

‘Day one upstairs. "These ain’t dreams, and they ain’t... memories."’ He thinks on this. ‘But...’ he turns to them. ‘It is... I mean... they are memories. We know our assignment; know why we were sent.’ He looks back at the ceiling – exhales. ‘Someone I pulled up from my past? While covering a street war that’s going to happen tomorrow?’ He nods – thinks for a minute – exhales. ‘Sure. Why not.’

They study him.

‘You’re not convinced.’

Still with his eyes on the ceiling.

‘No. I’m completely convinced.’ He sits – faces them. ‘But let me ask you something.’

They listen.

‘Is it possible? If we’re to accept that we’re sharing consciousness while inside the Collective, isn’t it reasonable to believe, once outside... we’re sharing it with anyone else who may be outside?’

Samira squints... ‘You’re saying someone else put her there.’

He breathes in then exhales while shaking his head. ‘All I’m saying is, I saw a girl... a girl who saw me. That’s not how this is supposed to work.’

He shrugs, puts his glass on the low table and stands. ‘I’m going to go clean up.’ He starts for the door. ‘I have to edit that scene for the 9pm live report and get my script over to CG production. A cop got a little... zealous on an older protester. I don’t think the committee is anxious to embrace abuse of power protests on top of economic equality protests.’

They watch him head for the door.

‘Take three days off.’ Morse pulls out an ultra-thin, metallic phone – begins a text. ‘I’ll have Taylor take your assignments.’ Dale turns – looks surprised. ‘Take your girlfriend to your place in Puerto Vallarta. Clear your head. I’ll need you sharp Monday. I’m sending you ahead to Tuesday’s Council debate. Minister Jeffries sneaks in something about the trade agreement... we’ll need to know in advance... so you can fix it. 53% opposed worldwide.’ He shakes his head. ‘I think we’ll nip that one in the bud.’

Dale thinks for a moment. ‘Thanks Morse... Maybe I’ll do that.’

He nods – they watch him until the door closes behind him.

Their eyes meet.

OUTDOOR CAFÉ – SANTA MONICA – NIGHT

The riot.

The fires.

The looting.

The violent confrontation. Rioters – police.

The live broadcast of the scene Dale witnessed 22 hours earlier – this time in T4 TrueBright Dimensionality.

For the entire world.

Without the police brutality.

Ten to twelve patrons sit at the bar of an outdoor café in Santa Monica, California – their eyes focused on the mayhem in Downtown LA.

Dale is at a table alone – his gaze is away – watching the ocean – the pier and Ferris Wheel and late-night tourists.

He hears laughter – a group leaving.

He barely takes notice until they bump his table splashing his drink.

He turns – but his protest is cut short when he meets eyes with an attractive girl – executive class dressed – leather skirt – cream blouse. Black hair – ebony eyes. Stunning. Familiar – it’s the girl – different clothes – but it’s her.

‘I’m sorry.’

Her voice is soft – articulate – subtly flirtatious.

She takes a napkin from the table and begins wiping his shirt.

He looks at her – watches every movement – he’s spellbound.

She’s a little drunk – he decides to let her.

Her eyes drop to the table – a business card.

He squints – suddenly suspicious – flips it and finds a handwritten address. A sports bar on North Venice Blvd.

Looks back up.

‘Meet me there tomorrow at eleven.’

A girl in her group tugs at her arm. ‘C’mon Avi. Let’s... go...’

She turns back to Dale. ‘I have to go.’ She starts to leave.

Stymied, he grabs her hand. ‘Wait!’

‘At eleven... I can answer your questions.’

‘Avi! Come-on!’ Her friend continues to pull.

She looks back. ‘Tomorrow.’

He continues to watch until she’s swallowed by darkness.

THE VIRTUAL SCREENS – THE OUTDOOR CAFÉ

Again we centre on the riot. The sound grows. All eyes in the café are focused. A moving red banner at the bottom reads:

Armed protesters bring violence into Downtown Los Angeles – two Population Control Officers brutally murdered. One protester injured. The entire city now under stage 4 lockdown.

DALE’S TABLE

A pair of twenty-dollar notes sit beneath a water glass. A half-eaten salmon sits gracefully on a bed of smooth lettuce. A sliver of purple lines the bottom of a tall wine glass.

Four empty chairs.

MORSE’S OFFICE

Morse faces a VCD wall in his office. Broken into sections, 20 faces, evenly split – men and women stare back at him. This is the World Affairs Committee. Presidents, Prime Ministers... Kings and Queens from around the world. And possibly the most powerful man in the world – the commissioner of the Population Control Authority based in Los Angeles, Mark Howard.

Morse settles into his desk chair. ‘It was only a matter of time before they found him.’

‘Do we have any idea of their intentions?’ A harsh man of (50) stares from his office. Beneath the screen are the letters UK.

Morse shakes his head. ‘It never goes that way, Minister Davies. We typically find out after they coerce their target to work against us.’

Quiet moments pass.

‘Whatever their reasons...’ (the elderly Italian president) ‘...Mr Santos appears to have become a threat.’

‘It’s a shame.’ A sharp woman of (40), the American president, speaks from the middle of the screen. ‘Ten stellar years of service.’

A quiet moment.

‘President Harris is right... of course she’s right.’ The Chinese provincial leader looks directly at Morse. ‘But we cannot afford another person with his knowledge to join the... whatever they’re calling themselves now. Opposition?’

Thoughtful faces – a heavy moment of silence.

Morse studies each member.

‘Then we are in agreement.’

All nods but one – the American. She shakes her head – looks away.

Morse watches – his