Dispatch Zero part two: Dispatch Zero, #2

By Adam Tramantano

The year 4372 with its weather control, life extensions, and option to work seems like the ideal time to be alive. But Dispatch is restless. He visits the cold desert that once was NYC and discovers that his friends (Judas, Ritzy, Lancy, Troll, and Perfect) are in a terrible way. Is it worth it to go back to the 1990's and displace his entire family in order to help people who are ancient history?

This is Part two in the Dispatch Zero series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Tramantano
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224155880

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Perceptible Impressions

It’s odd to think that in 4372 anything would be done analogue or on paper. But official reports like this are done on old-fashioned typewriters—old fashioned for you and for me. We’ve recreated them, just for this purpose. I’d read you the whole report, but most of it is matter-of-factual, and most of it you already know.

Here’s how it begins: SUBJECT TO ONE interceded in a distress call in 3050. SUBJECT TO ONE was disposed of time and place outside of the game and meridian. Through ACCIDENTAL CAUSE and INTERSTITIAL ENTANGLEMENT, SUBJECT TO ONE resonated to the 1990’s where he encountered a ROGUE PLAYER who assisted his return. In the course of his time in the 1990’s SUBJECT TO ONE disclosed certain facts of the game, the meridian, and longitudinal theories of time-space connectivity to time-bound peoples of the 1990’s. The effects of these disclosures have made no PERCEPTIBLE IMPRESSIONS on time or space.

That’s the part that I wanted to read to you for now. It’s the last sentence that I want you to know about: no perceptible impressions. I’ll tell you about the moment I returned and how they questioned me for hours, scanned me for micro-resonance, how they read the frequency of the taser and eventually returned to the cold gray desert, though were not able to locate it.

I’ll get to all of that in a little while.

But what I want to get to is that they’re wrong about that last part. They’re wrong that it made no PERCEPTIBLE IMPRESSIONS.

CHAPTER TWO

Killing time

It’s probably best to begin with the last moment that I saw you, around midnight halloween, 1994.

Well, it worked. It wasn’t a glitch into November first, I got back to 4372. I lost a few minutes here. To my family, the lapse was imperceptible. But there had to be all kinds of reports filed, interviews done, questions asked and answered. None of it was interesting. My wife and kids are only allowed to know this: I made connections and experiences for almost two weeks in another time.

I shouldn’t say none of the reports and interviews were interesting. You know what happened, so here is what’s interesting: they didn’t want to know about Ara, whoever was distributing these resonance inhibitor cigarettes, or her grandmother. When I explained about the building with the meridian—and I spent a long time, describing it in detail—all they said after it was—so Judas assisted you in a cooperative manner?

They asked that about nineteen times. I say they because you never get to see them. You sit in a room that is kind of like that meridian room I was in. I sit in an area that has light, but the rest of the room recedes in imperceptible darkness. There’s no sense of where the room ends other than the door through which I entered. The voices sound like they’re in the room, but I never see faces. It’s difficult to tell how many different voices there are and, at times, they seem to merge.

They are the incident committee. After I sat through their questions, I received the typed report that I told you about.

When I told them about the taser and how I picked up its resonance and wanted to return to see if I could identify the location of the school building, they replied, how many time-bound people from the 1990’s saw the meridian?

There were certain things they wanted to know and everything else they just seemed to not care about. I brought up the taser many times until finally they said that I could pilot a drone once the resonance was located. They extracted the resonance from me. Days went by. I didn’t hear anything from them. Then I got a typed paper notice that the resonance could not be found but that I could still pilot a drone to the region if I liked. I was given the opportunity to relinquish my post as Dispatch Zero. The incident committee considered this time in the 1990’s to be—the word they used was disruptive—to my ways of understanding the game.

I took it both as an opportunity and as a hint. As I explained once before, you don’t really have to work in this time. So I took some time to spend with the family. To them, things didn’t seem that different. They only had ten minutes without me. Remember the glitch in my return. I did not return exactly when I left. There are ten minutes in 4372 that I did not live through.

We took a vacation together. We left this floating land mass and travelled to a region of earth where you can still touch the surface. We stayed for about a month, and then the kids’ school year started up again. My wife returned to work counteracting the aging process. I had time to myself suddenly, time without hearing voices in need. Back on my floating land mass I felt a newfound sense of appreciation for the very moment of life. I think the last time we spoke I said something to you about life’s meaning being the adventure for the meaning. And I’ve also realized the joy of just existing. But I kept thinking about that ancient past, the once-lively place that was now a gray windy desert far below these levitating land masses that subsist on the wind energy.

I’ve gotten into a little bit of a game playing habit. Now that I’m no longer Dispatch Zero, I am allowed to play the game. The resonance has been removed from me. Like everyone else, I have to put a helmet on to play the game. I abide by the rules though, because I know how frustrating it is for dispatch when players don’t.

My playing has been more of a kind of research. I’ve gone back in time—in game time—to New York City before its demise. I’ve looked around the region where I spent time. I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly. Because I’m former dispatch, I have a special dispatch assigned to me as I play. His name is Delta Dispatch. He still calls me Dispatch Zero, even though someone else formally has that title now.

I never call because I know how to navigate the game without panicking. But he checks in on me once in a while anyway, as he is right now.

Delta to Zero,

Hey Delta, all is well as always, I say.

Just checking. Making sure that it’s a good silence, that’s all.

Hey Delta, what time are you from?

Your time. 4372.

And what is your location? I ask.

I am in my room during this conversation—the room that I have the game set up in. A dispatch can be anywhere. They operate with resonance in their brain waves.

Instead of answering, he says to me, What is it you keep looking for?

How do you know, I pause and correct myself, why do you think I’m looking for something?

He laughs and says, besides the fact that you just gave yourself away, you know that I read the entire report? This includes the typed report but also the recordings of the interviews. I mean I really know everything.

Everything? I say.

Everything official on record.

So, you’re supposed to watch me? I say.

No, just in the game. You’re given a special place in the game. Unlimited ghosts and your own dispatch. But no, I’m not connected with the incident committee, with any authorities any longer.

Any longer? I say.

I was an agent, now I’m a dispatch. That’s all. Say, you never took them up on that offer to use a drone to go looking for whatever it was you were looking for.

Uh huh, I say.

You know I can get you a drone. Just say the word. Immediately, I mean. You can even access it remotely from the helmet.

I thought they can only hover a hundred feet above ground, I say.

We have detailers, he says. We have special drones for the New York desert. Drones that can withstand the wind, that can get to the surface, that can walk, zoom in, open doors.

Doors? Why would there be doors left? I say.

If there are doors, this drone can open them, go inside of structures. And I can get it for your use.

I don’t think so, I say. They tried to pick up resonance on a taser and couldn’t. If that taser has turned to dust, then so has everything else. There’s nothing to find.

What have you got to lose?

He does have a point.

Would it have to be monitored? I say.

That’s a risky question to ask, he says, laughing. I’ll tell you what, I will sign off on it solely being monitored by me. But completely controlled by you for, let’s say, two hours. Anything more than two hours and I’m going to have to start recording and making reports. But this will fly under the radar.

Those are some interesting sayings you have there,

Which ones? he says.

Sign off. Under the radar. Very old expressions.

I’m from this time, Dispatch. You can trust me. But I was an agent. I’ve seen a lot of different times and places.

Twentieth century? Twenty first? I say.

Listen, I’m offering you the drone to actually go, right now, to the places you’ve been visiting in the game. We’re talking a safe experience like in the game, but actual pick up. These are advanced machines. They bring full sensory experience. This is not like just watching a video with sound. You will feel the sand on your cheeks, the wind in your hair.

He has me with this, so I acquiesce, and he says he’ll need a few hours.

I take a walk in the sun region, keeping my eyes turned towards the clear part of the sky, with its rich blue. This particular area has flawed views. You can see the rainy region and the sun region at the same time. But it’s a downward walk. This is a floating land mass with steps and paths built along the cliffside. As I approach the bottom, I see only a glimpse of true earth below. This particular region has flourishing green vegetation, even in the winter, as the floating land masses create a heat trap underneath, keeping the earth warm enough in the winter to avoid the frost. So much of this was about avoiding the global frost. But it is just a tiny crevice within which I can see this. The next land mass, which floats slightly lower than this, is buttressed so close that it looks like it’s connected. But if I look close enough, I can see the paper-thin space. There’s a bridge connecting the bottom of the cliffside of my landmass—the one I live on, to the neighboring one. This neighboring land mass, being at a lower levitation, only has clear skies, as my land mass blocks the view of the rainy skies. Its water source of irrigation for its own vegetation comes from capturing evaporating moisture from the actual earth underneath.

I walk across the bridge, peering into the sliver of space below where I can see the actual earth. They’ve constructed a river here to make it look authentic. But I know where the spaces are. I know where to look to see the true earth.

Hollander, is that you?

I look up knowing already who the voice belongs to. But I feign surprise and say, Teamly?

What are you doing here? he says. He has a big grin on his face. His dark rimmed glasses—an anachronistic anomaly—are just the tip of the iceberg to his peculiarities, his strange stubborn rejections of the modern world.

Enjoying the weather? he says, with a smirk of contempt. It’s always the same. No nuance. All control. Four O’clock, look what’s coming, he gestures his chin behind me.

I turn around and see a player walking around with the helmet on.

She walks past us.

You’re not going to say anything? he says, eyebrows rising above the dark rimmed glasses.

I’m not dispatch anymore, I say.

Tell me more, he says.

We walk together. He turns around, and continues in my direction.

I just came from this way, but I’ll go this way again, he says. That’s what everyone else is doing anyway. But I’m actually living, breathing, walking on the ground, though not the earth.

He manages to get a smile out of me.

So how did you get out of being Dispatch Zero? he says.

As we descend onto this lower land mass, I can feel the difference in air density. The oxygen—the natural amount of it—is increased. I take a deep breath and I’m reminded of what seems to me like a little over a month ago—the air of the 1990’s.

Feels good, he says. The real oxygen. That’s the only reason I come to quintessence.

Quintessence is the name of this lower land mass we’re on. The one we just left, the one where I live, is called Location 16.

So tell me, how did you get away from it? Did you find a replacement?

They offered me the option to leave, I say.

From one bridge, to another patch of grass, and then we are on another footbridge. There’s a wider gap between the streams below and a part of sunlight from underneath hits the earth and shines up. I pause for a moment and look down. Another masked player walks past us. I put my elbows on the railing, feeling the sun on my neck from above, seeing the sun shine up from below.

Am I disturbing you, Teamly says, on your walk through nature?

This is one of my favorite places, I say. "You can see resonance of the actual sunlight hitting the earth from below. And then the permasun above us. It’s quite a convergence."

The permasun is just the sun, you know? he says. It’s just a fancy name for the fact that they can always keep the clouds away. But tell me, Hollander, how the heck did you get out of being Dispatch Zero? What did you do?

I turn up to look at him, sun from below and above shining on my face. I say, I glitched to another time, during an emergency. I needed assistance from time bound peoples of another pre-game time. I told them about what was to come.

How long were you gone? he says.

I was there about twenty days, I say, looking back at the sun from below.

No, from here. How long were you not here? he asks urgently.

What difference does it make?

It makes the world of a difference. How long?

Ten minutes, I say. Is that OK with you?

"It’s not about me, Hollander. You do understand what’s different about 4300? This is the century of the simulsphere. Ten minutes shouldn’t be a problem, but you might have some amalgamated effects later on. So, where were you for twenty days?"

"What do you mean by amalgamated effects?" I say, turning up to him.

Let’s go where there’s less sun, he says, looking around. There are others on the bridge, looking up at the sky, the trees, the birds. Most are involved with a visor of some kind. Not a full helmet, but glasses that cover perception, that overlay real life with something else—a show, a song, a memory, annotations on the world or a new variation of the world.

I can see through the side of one guy’s lenses just a few feet away. All of the world is the same except it’s purple with the occasional smile emerging from the very ether itself. Why isn’t the sky enough to look at?

Teamly gently taps my elbow and says, This way.

We walk across the bridge, farther into Quintessence. We pass a cafe and walk behind it, turning away from another bridge with waterfalls beneath it, we head into the woods. A small enclave with a stream and birds, and a partial view of the sky. He puts his hand up to his lips, signaling to be quite. We continue on for a few minutes until we’re deep in the woods. We’ve descended, closer to the earth itself.

Are we OK now? I say. What are these amalgamated effects?

Teamly strolls slowly, the way he does as he lectures his students, hands behind his back, looking up mostly, sometimes down at his pacing, and at me for various points of emphasis.

We can explain the simulsphere in many ways, he says. "But the easiest way of explaining it is in its name: round and at the same time. Or, put slightly differently, time moving around and around. This century is the simulsphere. Everything is accessible here. This is the nexus, the hub. All other times are just spokes on this wheel."

It would sound poetic and inspiring if I didn’t already know this, I say.

The point is, to actually leave the time that is, in a sense, all times, is to basically leave time. Now if this happened for a day or more, you would probably obliterate yourself or perhaps facets of existence itself. But ten minutes is enough to push the envelope without breaking it too much.

I smile, "Were you about to combine pushing the envelope with breaking the bank?"

Too much? he says.

So do I have anything to worry about? I say.

He stops and I hear his feet plant on the gravel, and he looks directly at me. The bit of sun from the sky through the trees glints briefly on the lenses of his glasses which it seems to me now he opted intentionally to not have anti-reflective put on them. And he says, "Physically, you’ll be just fine. But ten minutes not here means that ten minutes of you really belongs to wherever you were. Psychologically you will feel a little tethered to another time. That’s all. It’s enough to add a little more doubt to what you already had about the sanctity of this time and place. So where were you?"

The 1990’s. I say.

If there’s one place I would ever want to go, he says, taking his glasses off, looking into the distance.

I would love to hear all about it, he says.

Well, you can read about it for starters, I say, taking several folded-together pages out of my inside jacket pocket.

I hand him the typed pages and he marvels at them as he unfolds them.

From the Incident Committee? he says

Yeah. I was wondering if you made the machine that typed it.

I probably did, he says reading.

We stroll in quiet, with only the sounds of our feet dragging some gravel as we go. I notice that I am a bit more of a dragger when I walk than he is. He lifts and plants more definitively.

He stops, turns to look at me and says, They cared more about the fact that they saw the meridian than you leaving a taser there?

They have their own priorities I guess, I say. I’m going to need that back, actually.

He hands it back to me and says, while looking at the pages as I place them back in my inside pocket, How could they not want to retrace it? How could they not find it?

I don’t know. But they offered me a drone to go looking if I’d like.

Did you take them up on it? he says.

I don’t say anything and stroll a bit.

Tell me you did, he says.

That’s actually why I’m on this walk. I’m killing time. In a few hours, my dispatch will have one ready for me.

"Oh no! Your dispatch? You mean, you’re playing the game?"

Well, I can now, I say, smiling.

You’ve crossed over to the dark side, Hollander, you really have, He says, as he continues to walk.

I’ve never played the game and I never will, he says.

Really?

Why do you seem surprised? he says. You can’t become the expert of all that is analogue if you’re constantly in some virtual mind space.

But how do you know all the things you know though? I say. Don’t you use some kind of visor, some kind of revisiting?

Of course, I can’t escape the time I’m in, but that’s just a way to begin. Really dealing in materials, in material reality, that’s how I know what I know. So when is this drone ready?

In about an hour, I say.

Can I be there? he says.

Sure, but you know that the drone communicates in the game? Technically, you’ll be in the game in order to experience what the drone experiences.

That’s OK, he says, picking up his pace to an excited run.

What happened to never? I say.

For a chance to see what New York City actually looks like now? I’ll play the game for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER THREE

Signal of difference

I walk through Quintessence with Teamly for another hour. On the way out, we stop to get iced coffees from the cafe before the bridge. We both agree that they make it better there. As we cross back over to Location 16, we are facing the rainy part of the sky. Though we’re not on that side of the landmass and we’re still under blue skies, I keep turning behind, to look towards the clarity.

You have a problem with it, he says, pointing to the gray skies.

Yeah, I don’t like it, I say.

Me neither, he says. But I face it. You don’t have to like everything in nature. I would never argue that. It’s just this incessant need to resist it, to control it.

Even longevity science? I say.

"Even longevity science, he says, declaratively. And then adds, Especially longevity science. I know that’s what your wife does. It’s nothing personal."

I take another sip of my coffee and say, You wouldn’t want to extend your life by another 75 years?

Is that what they can do now? he says, seeming interested.

They’ve gotten as much as 150. They have one guy, he’s 210 years old. But the guarantee is 75 years minimum.

The cost is too much, he says, sipping through his straw.

It’s free, I say. Free to everyone.

You lose the motivation of natural mortality, he says.

"What are you talking about the motivation of natural mortality?"

That’s what keeps us creating great things, doing great work. Most of the people in the world now just want to live as long as they can so they can spend it in some game. But if you have work you really care about, you’re racing against the inevitable.

How old are you? I say.

Fifty, he says. "A nice even age. Smack in the middle. Average natural life expectancy is 100. I’m halfway through. No problem with that."

"You wouldn’t want a guaranteed 75 more years? One simple procedure."

Right, he says. And an invasion of your privacy for the rest of your life.

Weekly anonymous biological monitoring.

They say it’s anonymous, he says, half-kidding.

But I have to emphasize this. My wife has no idea who her patients are. She just knows alpha-numerical codes and nuanced biological markers. That’s it.

We walk the rest of the way with less serious conversation. He tells me about the recent start of the semester, how it thrills him to see students in awe of the analogue room.

They’ve never seen chalk write on a chalk board in their entire lives, he says.

"Real wooden chairs, wired lights—old air conditioning where you hear the machine working. The first two weeks they would be pinching themselves, had that not been worked into the simulations too."

He’s right. If you pinch yourself in the game it hurts