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COME INTO MY WORLD . . .
by Thomas Nevin Huber
(Author note: A short story from an idea suggested by Ralph Rumpf.)
Hiruku Tachikawa woke up feeling horribly alone. It was quiet. For
the first time as far back as he could remember, it was quiet. He
listened for a moment, then rose and turned on the ancient stereo. No
sound filled the room. He keyed in the search function for any local
stations, then frowned as the tuner scanned first one band, then another,
then another, then another. Flipping the modulation to AM, he heard the
hiss of unfilled airwaves and touched the search function again. The
tuner muted the hiss, then scanned across the limited frequencies
assigned to low-fidelity news and talk. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He walked to the window and slid the vertical blinds aside, opening to
his view the overpopulated city that spread out below his tiny window. It
didn't look overpopulated this morning. It didn't look populated at all.
Rain pounded against the plastic glass. Dark clouds skittered against
an angry sky. A chime sounded behind him, reminding him that he had a
duty. He was no useless executive, consigned to some windowed view of
his city with nothing to do. People did care about him and his job.
So, even though it was deathly quiet, he prepared his breakfast and
ate it. The previous night's paper was thin and spoke of a terrible
economic disaster. It didn't matter. His job was secure. His company was
profitable. His job was important. He would continue working even if he
was the last man on earth.
He turned to the sports section. There wasn't any. He turned to the
market section. The market was closed for some obscure reason. They
didn't say what it was. That didn't matter. He didn't have any
investments, only curiosity.
He turned to the funnies and laughed at the sad jokes they told. Then
he finished his breakfast and departed for work.
He meticulously checked the locks to his flat. They were secure, making
the tiny apartment he called home secure. He was alone in the hallway. He
was alone in the building. He stood very, very still and the lights in the
hallway, sensing no movement, dimmed. He turned and they brightened. There
was someone there -- him. So the world continued to turn on its axis and
life went on, because he was there. Life continued and he had his job.
The streets of the overcrowded city weren't crowded this morning. He
walked quickly because no one blocked his path or moved in front of him
or pushed him one way or another. The street was empty, except for a
stray dog.
Funny, he thought. The dog looked confused, lost. It started for him,
wagging its tail. But Hiruku hissed at it, and the dog put its tail
between its leg, turned, and fled.
Hiruku shrugged it off. The dog was unimportant. The festival was past
and so the dog was nothing once more. Someday, the dog might find its way
into someone's oven and then become a meal in a society that had little
meat to share.
The walk was a short one. Hiruku turned into his building and marched
sharply over to the elevators. All but one stood open, so he had his pick.
No waiting for one this morning, not for Hiruku.
The ride was quick. No stops to let people on or off. Just him. The
fifteenth floor wasn't too high, but height didn't matter when there were
a lot of people. Today, with no one but him, he was going to be early.
But not early enough.
"Well!" came the sharp comment. "I thought you'd never arrive!"
It was Kyoshi, his customer -- his only appointment this morning. The
man was almost always impossible. But not today. Today was the day for
Kyoshi to enter retirement.
Hiruku bowed deeply at the waist and unlocked the door to the suite.
Kyoshi nodded his head slightly and rushed inside.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
Hiruku raised his hand toward the only door at the end of the waiting
room. "It is ready," he said, ignoring honor for such an honorless person.
Kyoshi went inside, then returned almost immediately. "There are two
left open. Which is mine?"
"You have the honor to choose."
"Ah, then I choose the furthest."
"You are welcome."
Hiruku followed the impertinent one into the room and went immediately
to the controls.
"When does it start?" Kyoshi wanted to know.
"It is ready," Hiruku repeated.
"Then . . . ?"
Hiruku reached under the console and brought out the helmet. One remained
behind, waiting. The rest were in use by the others.
"Please," he directed Kyoshi to lay on the empty couch.
He plugged the helmet's cable into the head of the couch.
"Hurry," he was urged.
Hiruku ignored the impertinent one. As always, he checked and rechecked
and rechecked again, to make sure all was in order. Nothing must be amiss.
Then, he brought the helmet down, over Kyoshi's head.
"Ah. . ." The sound escaped from slightly parted lips.
And all was quiet in the world.
Hiruku walked quickly back to the console and brought out the second
helmet. He plugged the helmet's cable into the head of the only remaining
empty couch. Then he repeated the procedure and checked and rechecked and
rechecked again, to make sure all was in order. Nothing must be amiss.
Then, taking one last look around, he climbed onto the couch and settled
back, relaxing. Slowly and carefully he lowered the helmet over his own
head. Deliberately, slowly, and completely.
Darkness surrounded him.
Silence was quieter than the silent city.
Feeling was . . . gone.
He was . . . disconnected. And into the world they called virtual reality.
There was nothing and he was nothing.
He wasn't even the last man on the earth . . .
for there was no longer anyone -- anywhere.
Not even anyone to . . . . . .
. . . . . . . read . . .
. . . . . . . this . . . .
# # #
Copyright 1992 Thomas Nevin Huber
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Tom Huber is rapidly approaching middle age (50). Involved with computers
since the early '60's and has been employed as a technical writer for a major
computer manufacturer for over 12 years. Previous works include numerous user,
installation, service, & tech manuals, and magazine articles. Hobbies include
genealogy and running his bbs. Look for his major series of SF novels, soon.
This story was inspired by a sentence read in a fellow writer's short story.
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