"Unknown Entity:" New Virtual Reality Thriller
Joseph Dysart
I've just released a new novella, "Unknown Entity." It's a virtual
reality thriller about Dylan Pierce, a fugitive psychic who is offered
the opportunity to rescue a drop-dead gorgeous folksinger from her
insanity -- a folksinger he's admired for as long as he can remember.
The catch: his only chance to bring her back is to journey into her
twisted subconscious.
I'd love to know what you think about it.
Here's a sneak peek at the first chapter:
UNKNOWN ENTITY
© 2007 Joseph Dysart
~ Chapter One ~
I CAME to woozily, staring into the puss of one of those white-sweater-
tied-around-the-shoulders kind of guys. Fiftyish. Stingy smile.
Silver-feathered mane. Mirror-slave blue eyes.
Winston Hamilton. One of the world's richest men.
The two goons who'd drugged me were slouched against the wall, one on
either side of me. The tallest stroked a shiner under his left eye -
a little memento I'd gifted him during our recent 'get acquainted'
encounter. The other picked his nose like it was some sort of
performance art.
I could see Hamilton clearly now. I coughed, and he grinned, leaning
towards me from the throne of a big black leather chair that loomed up
from behind his desk. A pink mole about the size of a raisin dangled
from his jaw. He pulled on it. It was the same nervous tic I'd
noticed on a recent TV interview he'd done "60 Minutes."
"Ah, Mr. Pierce," Hamilton said. "How nice of you to join us."
The goons stiffened, both looking at me like they wished they'd used a
real gun to take me down during our altercation earlier that day --
instead of one that fired tranquilizer.
I made a move to get to my feet, but got nowhere. They'd lashed me to
a chair while I was unconscious, and had done good work. The ropes
squeezed my shoulders and gut like anacondas. "My apologies," I said
to Hamilton, grinning. "Been meaning to drop by for awhile."
Hamilton snorted. "Yes. Well. I really wish we could have met under
more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Pierce. But you must admit, you've
been rather elusive lately."
A wave of pain rifled across my back, and my grin pinched to a wince.
The tall goon smirked. Apparently, he and his buddy had been very
thorough during their version of the "meet-and-greet" earlier that
day.
"Nothing personal," I said. "But the fact is, I misplaced my
Blackberry. Been hell trying to put my week back together."
Hamilton cracked a faint smile and said nothing, pulling on his pink
mole instead. He looked over at the tall goon. "Cut him loose."
The tall goon -- Goon Number One -- responded to Hamilton's words like
he'd been thwacked by a two-by-four. He and his booger-loving buddy
had spent the past six months chasing my butt clear across the globe.
Cut me loose? He'd rather shove rusty razor blades under his
fingernails.
Still, Hamilton was the one signing the checks. The goon's eyes went
vacant. He drew a switchblade from a pocket, and went to work on the
ropes. As the restraints popped loose, his blade kissed my skin in a
way I thought was a bit too familiar. I was tempted to school him on
the finer points of switchblade safety, but decided against it.
He finished up, and I heard a clink! of his switchblade closing behind
my ear -- a clink! that seemed to say I might be free of the
restraints, but gosh darnit, he still was boss, and I'd better realize
that.
Ooo.
"Much obliged," I said to Goon One.
"Screw you, pretty boy." He slouched against the wall again - his
arms crossed, his eyes down, his lips moving in a silent swear. All
things considered, he wouldn't be my first choice for the neighborhood
welcome wagon.
His goon buddy, who'd only displayed marginal interest in the rope
cutting, resumed his favorite diversion. This time, he dug deep into
his left nostril, retrieving what apparently was a blue-ribbon
winner. He stared intently at his prize, thoroughly pleased with
himself.
I rubbed my chest where the ropes had bitten deepest, and kept an eye
on Hamilton. He'd gotten up from his desk, and had his back to me,
his hands clasped at his butt. He was gazing through some rather
majestic, crystal-clear glass windows, which were about three stories
high, and overlooked a sprawling compound.
It was a stunning view - acres upon acres of finely manicured rolling
hills. It must have taken an army of laborers to maintain. The
grandeur of it all - the artfully sculpted shrubbery, the controlled
explosion of pinks, violets and yellows emanating from more than a
dozen varieties of flowers, the intricate maze of paths meticulously
woven through the scene - reminded me of something you'd see outside
the window of a French count's castle.
I studied the scene more closely, and saw the symphony of flora ending
abruptly at a cliff overlooking a quiet ocean. Off on the horizon,
there was a boulder about the size of a small cottage perched
precariously on the edge of the cliff. I recognized the landmark
immediately: Mugu Rock. We were on the Southern California coast,
just north of LA, somewhere up in the hills of Malibu.
"I have a driver outside," Hamilton said, his back still to me.
"You're free to go."
Goon Number One exhaled fitfully, trying not to explode, forcing
himself to stare at the floor. Even so, he couldn't help shooting
what he apparently thought were daggers at me in a sideways glance.
I rubbed my chest some more and studied Hamilton's shoulders.
Neither of us said anything for a long time.
He finally turned around to face me. "Look, Mr. Pierce. We realize
we're not going to get anywhere without your cooperation. You know
it, and we know you know. So I'm going to ask you - very politely --
for your cooperation."
"Something tells me Miss Manners would dicker with your definition of
'polite.'"
Another faint smile from Hamilton. "Well then, let me start again,
and be among the many to congratulate you on the way you handled the
Leary murder case."
I snorted. The Leary case. That was where all this nonsense had
begun. About a year ago, LAPD had hit a major wall in a dragnet for
a gruesome serial killer three years running, and had quietly begun
making overtures to the local psychic community.
After "sourcing" a few sensitives with no success, they'd shown up at
my door, the Virtual Reality Lab at UCLA. I found out later they'd
been tipped off about me by someone at the U.S. Department of Defense
- now my former employer. "He's not your run-of-the-mill psychic,"
their informant had gushed. "He can crawl into other people's minds.
Slither in and out of dream-worlds. Plod through someone else's
unconscious like it's a walk in the park. He's absolutely amazing.
"Plus, he's got some kind of computer graphics gizmos wired into his
brain that enable him broadcast his entire experience to a computer
screen. So everything he sees and does inside someone else's mind,
you're able to see - in real time."
Actually, those "gizmos" represented about two hundred million dollars
-- and about a dozen years of groundbreaking research in virtual
reality. But I'm not one to quibble.
The lead detective from LAPD who approached me for psychic help was
extremely skeptical, and made it clear she didn't put any stock in
what I did. Mean-eyed, short, and mostly disgusted with life, she
informed me that she was simply reaching out to satisfy, as she
described it, "some hair-brained whim," of another detective on the
case. "He's had some luck with 'your type' before," she told me.
She went through the usual niceties, charming me into public service
with a golden-throated, "Like I said, I don't buy this crap for a
minute. But go ahead and play around with this bloody blouse, which we
found at the crime scene. You'll make my partner happy, and then we
can all go home."
It was an invitation that me, and my research partner, Elliot Jenkins
- who I call the "Silicon Wizard," and for good reason - simply
couldn't refuse.
As I examined the blouse, the lead detective became even more squirmy
as she learned more details about the nature of our research.
Essentially, we were attempting to use VR technology to connect with
the inner mind. By her standards, I'm sure that meant we were little
more than Lords of Egghead City.
I took a stab at trying to convince her that our VR research was, in
fact, pretty heady stuff. Anytime I made a psychic journey into
someone else's inner world, Elliot was able to track every move I made
in 3D audio/video -- thanks to his silicon wunderstuff. Occasionally,
if all conditions were just right, Elliot could even project a
holographic image of himself into the virtual environment, and make
things a bit more interesting.
Apparently, my explanation triggered the full depth of the good
officer's intellectual curiosity. "Spare me the mumbo jumbo," she
said, stepping back and giving me the universal gesture for 'It's over
my head.' "Work your 'magic.' Spread your fairy dust. Do whatever it
is that you do. If you come up with the killer, great. If not, come
five o'clock every day, there's still a beer with my name on it."
For the first few weeks, Officer Generally-Disgusted-With-Life downed
her daily beers with grim satisfaction, noting at both appropriate and
inappropriate moments that we'd done nothing to shake her world view.
That was, until one morning, while Elliot and I were doing a standard
check of some new VR equipment, and an image of the killer at one of
the crime scenes flashed in my mind.
(for more, click to: http://www.josephdysart.com)