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Chapter 3: For I have dined on honeydew, and drunk the milk of paradise

She looked at the card. So, James was monitoring her. Can he see me on a screen, or does he just have data? If this is one of his boxes, then what am I really when I’m here? I’m an emaciated body floating in a stasis field, somehow hooked into a kind of network, with my consciousness living in these fantasy worlds. She stopped herself.

How do I know this stuff. When I was a Roman slave girl on her way to be crucified, I didn’t know this. I didn’t know what was happening was called being crucified. I just knew it hurt. I knew they wanted to hurt me, that it made them feel powerful, even happy. But, if they are just part of a box program, was there anyone there that really felt anything? Is anyone here real? Am I real?

Her skin was a bronze-copper brown. When she was a slave… she couldn’t remember the colour of her skin in that other place. She remembered that she wasn’t white – she had always liked her dark skin. She had looked after her body, working out. Where was that? She couldn’t remember. How did she know she worked out?

I hope I remember soon. Something. Anything.

She put down the card, back on the table. She looked down at her body – toned shoulders, smooth skin, visible but not prominent collarbone, a swell of small, but round firm breasts, a flat tummy, with a slight flare at her hips, a subtly rounded mound in her green bikini bottoms, slim thighs and knees that were not too knobby. A body that she knew was attractive to many men, and some women, and she was happy in it.

She slipped the bikini top off. Her breasts were golden, the tan line of the bikini barely visible. She had never liked tanning. Her areolae and nipples were darker, almost purple. That was right, she thought. That was real – dark skinned people have dark nipples. What about “down there”?

She bit her bottom lip, worried that something wouldn’t be right. What if this “program” had given her features that she didn’t want? She pulled the waist of the bikini bottom away from her abdomen and looked. She let out a breath. That’s a relief, she thought. She pulled the strings of the bikini and let the bottom drop to the floor. She looked at her naked body. There where the bottoms had been there was a neatly trimmed triangle of dark hair, shaved around her labia – she liked bare labia for when a lover…

How did I know that?

Maybe this is memories coming back. She wanted to feel optimistic. She knew that she had had lovers. Well, she had had experiences with lovers, at least in the box. She doubted that the “monster” as she thought of her “real” body would attract much of anything, least of all a lover.

This was how she looked, she thought, beautiful, young, vibrant.

It wasn’t, was it? Was a dried up anorexic mummy, preserved in a stasis field really her? Funny, she thought. I’ve only been here on this beach for 45 minutes or so, and already I’m thinking of that “thing” as someone else, not me. I don’t want that to be me. If that “thing” didn’t experience anything, but this bronze-skinned princess did, wasn’t the bronze girl her.

She went into the beach house for the first time. It was like the cottages at a tropical resort. Bright curtains with batik patterns hung at the open windows. The ceiling beams were bamboo. The floors were dark teak and had rattan rugs by the large bed, made up with crisp white linen sheets. There were a couple of wicker armchairs and another table, which had a flask on it, black with a pour spout, and two glass highball glasses. She knew somehow that there would be a bathroom through the door past the bed. The picture above the bed was framed in standard resort hotel fashion and was a print of an Arab dhow or some other exotic sailboat in port, with a gypsy girl on the pier getting accosted or propositioned by the sailors coming ashore. She found it slightly arousing.

She opened the flask, and poured some clear liquid into one of the glasses. She tasted it. Water.

Normal water, nothing special. No sensory overload. She didn’t want to start being surprised every time she took a drink of water. Nobody can live in constant sensory ecstasy.

The phone mentioned in the card was one of the old fashioned ones that hung on the wall. She picked up the receiver and found that it was a cordless, mobile variety, and the wall mount was just a charging station. If this is a box, it’s just programmed to discharge and need recharging. It should just be able to function, but somehow I believe it will need charging.

There was a dial pad, as usual, with buttons. The buttons had little labels below the numbers. Below the “5” it said “Room Service”. She pressed 5, just to see what would happen.

“Hello Miss,” said a friendly female voice. “I hope you are enjoying your stay. What can I get for you?”

“I was just checking to see whether this phone worked,” she said. She told herself that she shouldn’t feel silly. The other voice was just an artificial creation of the program, not real. But it probably had feelings, didn’t it? What had James said? More real than reality?

“Oh, yes, Miss,” said the voice cheerfully. “All our phones and all the amenities in your cottage will work. Now, can I get you something? You’ve had time to settle in a bit, so you might be hungry. I can suggest a nice seafood plate with a salad, fresh island fruit, and a lemon sorbet, if you like.”

She realized suddenly that she was starving. “Oh, that sounds lovely,” she said without thinking, and then realized that she had a bikini as her sole property in the world, even if it was a virtual world.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pay though,” she said, “you see, I…”

“You charge it to your room,” said Room Service. She wanted to learn the woman’s name. She didn’t want to think of her as “Room Service”.

“Oh!” she said. “Yes, thank you.”

“It’s nice to have you with us. I’ll send your food right over. 10 minutes?”

“That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss,” said the voice. “Have a wonderful…”

“Wait, please,” she said, suddenly distressed.

“Miss?”

“This may sound like an odd question,” she said hesitantly, “but, um, do you know my name?”

“We are not told individual guests’ names,” said Room Service. “Only gender to allow us to use the proper form of address. You are listed as single, female in Cottage 4, so I call you Miss. Oh! I’m so sorry,” said Room Service. “Would you rather I said “Ms”?”

“No, thank you,” she said, disappointed. “Miss is fine.”

“I’ll send your dinner over,” said Room Service. “Have a lovely evening, Miss.”

“Thanks, you too,” she said and hung up the phone on its charger. She looked across the room and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, a slim bronze nude woman framed in batik curtains with the blue of the lagoon behind her. Her face was not quite oval, dark eyes with long lashes, nice cheekbones, and a slightly pointed chin that was cute rather than angular. One of her lovers had liked to comment on…

Another almost memory. She stood still and held her breath, thinking of a man who liked her chin. Did he just say something, perhaps with a light touch to her face, or did he kiss it playfully? She got no picture, just the vague idea that there had been a lover, and he had liked her face.

She had had a lover. Someone had loved her. Was he real, or a “box”-generated lover? Either way she felt an acute loss. She was suddenly lonely. She wanted someone to love her.

If she had a lover in a previous reality, could this “box” produce a lover for her?

Room Service had not known her name, but that’s not particularly frightening. The girl had a plausible explanation. Everything worked the way it was supposed to. The only thing that hinted that this was a virtual reality was the card from James. She went out onto the veranda, still naked and picked up the card.

The note from James was gone. In its place was a list of resort amenities, a schedule for scuba diving lessons, and a map of the resort. There was a list of resort numbers to call for different services and for information. She shivered.

Maybe this was real and she had dreamed up James as part of a coping mechanism to deal with the being crucified nightmare. The only problem with that thought was her lack of memory. Surely a mere nightmare would not cause amnesia like this.

“Good evening, Miss” said a male voice casually. A young Polynesian looking boy was walking up the steps to the veranda. He wore dark trousers and a white serving jacket, and carried a silver tray with a gleaming cover. Her dinner. She suddenly remembered that she was wearing nothing.

She gasped in embarrassment, looking around for a towel or robe – anything to cover herself, instead she gave him a panicked look and darted into the beach house.

“Wait,” she said as she darted behind the door, “don’t go away, I’ll be…wait…just a minute.”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” said the boy. “The resort is clothing optional at all cottages and private areas. We are very discreet.”

“Oh,” she said. She had found a guest robe – white terry cloth with a surfboard stitched over the breast. She let the boy into the cottage and he placed the tray on the table.

He produced a bottle of chilled white wine. “Compliments of the management,” he said, “to welcome you to our lovely island.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, still getting over being caught outside naked. The boy seemed entirely unaffected.

“If there’s nothing else, Miss, “ said the boy, handing her a receipt folder. It said “Diner’s Club” on it.

She opened the folder, and there was the invoice. Cottage 4, seafood plate, Riesling (comp), with the price in Euros, US dollars, and UK Pounds. She chose to pay in Euros – somehow that felt right, and added a 22 percent tip, and signed the chit, and handed it back to the boy. He glanced at it and smiled.

“Thank you, Miss.” he said brightly. “Have a good evening.” He left and suddenly she was aware again of the quiet aloneness. She was also aware of her hunger, the aroma from the fruit and seafood making her mouth water.

“I can be lonely later,” she muttered. “Right now I’m starving!” She sat down at the small table and picked up what seemed to be a grilled scallop. It had a garlic butter sauce of some sort and was one of the best things she had ever eaten. She forgot how she was dining alone and was soon looking at empty plates, while she sipped on crisp cold white wine and spooned sorbet into her mouth.

She felt tired as the sun disappeared behind the cottage. That means I’m on the East coast of the island, she thought, because the sun sets in the West. Everyone knows that.

Everyone knows where they came from and what their name is, she thought, except me. All I know is that I was nailed to a piece of wood, and now I’m here. It’s not right.

She walked down to the beach with her glass of wine and looked out to sea. The ocean smelled like salt, and fish, distance and adventure. The waves were warm as they lapped at her toes. She turned around to see the lights from her cottage. Through the palm trees and foliage she saw other lights. Other cottages? Was there a main building with a restaurant and bar? A gift shop?

Were there other guests?

She would check that out in the morning. If this was a virtual reality, she thought she should have been able to go without sleep, but whatever this was, she was suddenly exhausted, and those linen sheets were almost a fantasy to her now.

She put the glass down on the table – someone had cleared away the tray. Everything was normal. She went into the bathroom. There was a flight bag, no logo, but inside were cosmetics, suntan lotion, and some toothpaste and a brush. She brushed her teeth. It felt habitual. She knew how to do it. She slipped out of the robe and hung it on the back of the bathroom door on a hook. Then she padded bare and barefoot to the bed, slipped under the cool linen bedclothes and felt them caress her bare skin. She sighed happily and fell asleep almost immediately.

She was awakened by a ray of sunshine dancing across her face. She sneezed. She remembered reading that some people sneeze when sun first hits their face. Where had she read that? Another almost memory.

She sat up, pulling the sheet up over her breasts as there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“Good morning, Miss,” said a voice, female, not “Room Service” – an older voice. It pronounced “morning” like “moh-ning”. “Breakfast. I leave here, on table foh you. Hope you enjoy. Hot coffee too, in flask. When you ready. Good moh-ning.”

There was a sound of a tray being set down and then the quiet again.

She would check out this place today, she thought. After breakfast, she would go exploring and see if there was anyone else here.

Breakfast was fresh pineapple slices, an omelette with chives and mushrooms, fresh bread, and some strong coffee. There was cream and sugar. The china had the surfboard logo, like the robe, but no name. There was a clean linen napkin. The morning sunshine was already reasonably high now, dancing across the waves of the lagoon, darker ocean beyond. She thought she could make out waves breaking further out – possibly a barrier reef. She seemed to know something about the ocean.

She went back into the bedroom. She saw the blue suitcase beside the closet doors. Why had she not noticed that before? Why could she not remember having a suitcase? She opened the case and found a white blouse and khaki shorts. She put on the green bikini again and then the shirt and shorts over top. They fit perfectly. She rolled up the shorts slightly. Satisfied that she was presentable, she found a pair of sandals in the case and slipped them on. They fit to her feet, obviously hers. She smiled grimly to herself and went out.

There was a stone path that led around the cottage and she followed that. It wound through a small back garden filled with flowers, and then went into the foliage. She left her cottage area and was walking through a grove of what seemed to be coconut palms. There was a small sign up ahead, facing away from her. When she got to it she looked at the other side of it. “3” it said.

“Must be cottage 3,” she murmured to herself. She decided to check it out.

There was a similar garden, and the back of a cottage, similar to hers. She went around to the front. There was an identical veranda, and there was a tray on the table. Two plates and two cups, one of which still had a half a cup of coffee in it. She felt the cup. Cold. So whoever was there had left earlier. Not outrageous. In fact, in a lot of circumstances it would be normal. Somehow she expected that whatever cottage she went to, she would find that the people had just gone. She didn’t really want to test the theory. It was a little too creepy.

She decided to find the main building.

She went back to the main path, and started on again. She passed two other side paths to her left leading to “2” and “1”. She didn’t stop there.

There should be a main lodge, or at least a place for checking in, a front desk. The path went on into the trees. She followed it and it came out of the foliage. Ahead there was another small sign. Was this another sector of the resort, another set of cottages? She stopped to read the sign. “6” it said.

She shivered slightly. What if she went on? She walked on past a sign that said “5” and when she got to “4” she decided to see what this cottage was. There was a nice clear veranda, no tray, no coffee flask. She knocked at the door, and was not surprised that there was no answer. She cautiously opened the door and looked in. There was a suitcase and a nicely made bed. She knew there would be a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Her toothbrush was lying on the edge of the sink.

“Weird,” she said. She remembered the card, and ran to find it. The small resort map showed a straight path along the coast with six cottages. There was no main building indicated. At each end of the row, the path simply ended. At both “1” and “6” it stopped at the trees, according to the map. There was no circle where she could loop back. So how had she gotten back here?

She decided she would call one of the other services. She picked up the phone, and read the directory on the card. “Activities” was at extension 43, Main Desk was at 41. She dialed 41.

“Good morning, Miss,” said a friendly, businesslike female voice. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

“It’s lovely,” she said, “but I’m just wondering if there are other people staying at the resort. I haven’t seen anyone else.”

“Oh, we like to guard the privacy of our guests. Most come to get away from social obligations and just relax. Privacy is very important to us.”

“But are there other people here?” she asked feeling panic rising again.

“Well, if you’re feeling a little closed in,” said the voice, “I could suggest a couple of activities. You could go snorkeling. That’s quite popular and we have excellent guides and instructors. Just call extension 43.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do that.” She hung up. She stared at the phone.

She dialed 43. A male voice anwered. “G’day, and what can I do for you?”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m in number 4 and I would like to have something to do. Can you call back with a list of activities.” She hung up. Activities, preferably with other people. Anybody else.

“Oh, right, Miss,” said a cheerful male voice. “Too bad you didn’t call earlier. You could have joined a fishing trip to the reef.”

“Is there another activity I could do?” she asked. She felt suddenly vulnerable and small. Lost in a situation beyond her control. All she wanted was to know she was okay. Was she just being insecure. She had to pull it together. “I’d like a list of group activities, maybe where I could meet a couple of other people,” she said.

“Well,” said the man, “there’s nothing really available like that today anymore, since most of our people are out with the fishing trip. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you right back, okay.” He had a pleasant hint of an Australian accent.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “That would be fine.”

She decided to sit on the veranda for a bit and wait for the call back. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t leave the resort. She didn’t think there was anywhere to go anyway. Wherever she went, she felt she’d end up back at the cottages. She looked out to sea. There was no boat anywhere near the reef. There were no boats. Where was this fishing trip? Shouldn’t she be able to see it?

The phone rang. She got up and went into the cottage, picking up the receiver from the table where she left it.

“Sorry, luv,” said the Australian. “Nothing today, but there’s another boat tour scheduled for tomorrow morning, around the island. You could join that.”

“Yes, please,” she said. “Sign me up for that. Cottage 4.”

“No worries, Miss,” said the Australian. “Consider it done. No worries at all.”

She put the phone back on the charger and went to lie down on the bed. If things were going to stay like this, she was going to go crazy from loneliness and boredom. She could have at least had a book to read. Maybe she should just go swimming in the ocean.

The phone rang again. She jumped up. Maybe the Australian voice had something for her after all.

“Hello?” she said.

“Death to the unbelievers!” said a voice. She knew that voice. It was the soldier

...
I want to see the movie of this. I would probably jump when the soldier calls her. I actually did. It was super creepy.
 
and diligent.
I'm as interested as the rest of you in finding out where this goes. I know some things, but some details are a bit fuzzy, like why she would stay in a "box", rather than in real life. I think there's a hint in the fact that she's happier ais a young, vibrant woman than a weak shell of a person. And I'm trying to plausibly work out how the "soldier" got in a not-networked "box".:confused::doh: The resort is a very small "box". There's nowhere to hide.:eek:
 
Great stuff, Jolly! :clapping:

Gentle reader this is what happens when Jollyrei's imagination lets its hair down! Even Jollyrei doesn't know what's going on! :rolleyes:

But someone's hacking into this box, and it doesn't seem to be the North Koreans! :eek:
 
I'm as interested as the rest of you in finding out where this goes. I know some things, but some details are a bit fuzzy, like why she would stay in a "box", rather than in real life. I think there's a hint in the fact that she's happier ais a young, vibrant woman than a weak shell of a person. And I'm trying to plausibly work out how the "soldier" got in a not-networked "box".:confused::doh: The resort is a very small "box". There's nowhere to hide.:eek:

There's nothing wrong with starting a story without knowing how it will end. I only figured out whodunnit in "The Bronx Crux Murders" when I was around 10 chapters in. I saw a piece by John Grisham where he said, "Don't start until you know the ending". But what does he know, right?
 
...and....

good question, one might ask "which of the two can continue to exist if the other is destroyed" but maybe the answer to that isn't as clear as it might seem either...
It really depends on which of them (or either of them) is real. Is James real? Is this whole scenario in the box matrix? I like to think there is a base reality, but how do you get out to it?
 
The quality of the writing and story-telling is really first-rate, very readable. I'm enjoying this immensely.

Posting chapters without having the entire story complete is something I'd never do, and most of these seem to spiral down into a mess. But it seems like you've got a solid handle on it. I hope you can work out the details without running into an "oops" where something needs to change back in chapter 1 in order to make things work in chapter 8. :devil:
 
The quality of the writing and story-telling is really first-rate, very readable. I'm enjoying this immensely.

Posting chapters without having the entire story complete is something I'd never do, and most of these seem to spiral down into a mess. But it seems like you've got a solid handle on it. I hope you can work out the details without running into an "oops" where something needs to change back in chapter 1 in order to make things work in chapter 8. :devil:
THT Inc. offers story continuity services. I only start with an outline... never one written but have only blown it once...
 
The quality of the writing and story-telling is really first-rate, very readable. I'm enjoying this immensely.

Posting chapters without having the entire story complete is something I'd never do, and most of these seem to spiral down into a mess. But it seems like you've got a solid handle on it. I hope you can work out the details without running into an "oops" where something needs to change back in chapter 1 in order to make things work in chapter 8. :devil:
I had a story like that a while back. I felt "Death and the Demoiselle" got away on me a bit. My feeling at the time was that I tried to run too many characters, and there were too many sub-plots. In this story, I'm staying with the one main character, and the one point of view, so you'll always get only what "she" knows and experiences. That may leave a few things open to interpretation. For example, she knows she's supposed to be safe at the "resort", but somehow the Roman has found her. Not sure he can get in, but he can worry her. She's 'visible', for some reason. I need to work out how that's possible. She may figure out what is real, or she might just think she's safe, and the whole experience is part of a virtual box gone wrong. The "Roman" sequence is the part that needs solving, and we may find out soon what the "box" system is all about, and how the "Romans" got in. Because of this, there may be some delays in chapters, because I have to get them right, rather than posting things in a half-baked manner. I feel compelled to write it, at the moment, so I'm optimistic that I can hold it together. :)

Also, I'm leaving for England in a little over 2 weeks, and if the story isn't finished before then, there will likely be some delay as I will likely be "away from keyboard" during the trip. Cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess.:confused:
 
I had a story like that a while back. I felt "Death and the Demoiselle" got away on me a bit. My feeling at the time was that I tried to run too many characters, and there were too many sub-plots. In this story, I'm staying with the one main character, and the one point of view, so you'll always get only what "she" knows and experiences. That may leave a few things open to interpretation. For example, she knows she's supposed to be safe at the "resort", but somehow the Roman has found her. Not sure he can get in, but he can worry her. She's 'visible', for some reason. I need to work out how that's possible. She may figure out what is real, or she might just think she's safe, and the whole experience is part of a virtual box gone wrong. The "Roman" sequence is the part that needs solving, and we may find out soon what the "box" system is all about, and how the "Romans" got in. Because of this, there may be some delays in chapters, because I have to get them right, rather than posting things in a half-baked manner. I feel compelled to write it, at the moment, so I'm optimistic that I can hold it together. :)

Also, I'm leaving for England in a little over 2 weeks, and if the story isn't finished before then, there will likely be some delay as I will likely be "away from keyboard" during the trip. Cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess.:confused:
Isn't Canada far enough away from Trump without going to England???
 
Isn't Canada far enough away from Trump without going to England???
It's hard to imagine that anyplace could be far enough :rolleyes:
Interestingly, Mr. Trump was not part of the equation at all when this trip came up. I have to be in Gloucester and London (Westminster Abbey) for music reasons. Hopefully I can photograph some decent backgrounds for crux manips, and maybe get some new story ideas. Barb always does, when she travels, but I don't get into trouble like she does, so we'll just have to see. :devil:
 
Interestingly, Mr. Trump was not part of the equation at all when this trip came up. I have to be in Gloucester and London (Westminster Abbey) for music reasons. Hopefully I can photograph some decent backgrounds for crux manips, and maybe get some new story ideas. Barb always does, when she travels, but I don't get into trouble like she does, so we'll just have to see. :devil:
I could give you lessons .. about getting into trouble if you wish ;)
 
I had a story like that a while back. I felt "Death and the Demoiselle" got away on me a bit. My feeling at the time was that I tried to run too many characters, and there were too many sub-plots. In this story, I'm staying with the one main character, and the one point of view, so you'll always get only what "she" knows and experiences. That may leave a few things open to interpretation. For example, she knows she's supposed to be safe at the "resort", but somehow the Roman has found her. Not sure he can get in, but he can worry her. She's 'visible', for some reason. I need to work out how that's possible. She may figure out what is real, or she might just think she's safe, and the whole experience is part of a virtual box gone wrong. The "Roman" sequence is the part that needs solving, and we may find out soon what the "box" system is all about, and how the "Romans" got in. Because of this, there may be some delays in chapters, because I have to get them right, rather than posting things in a half-baked manner. I feel compelled to write it, at the moment, so I'm optimistic that I can hold it together. :)

Also, I'm leaving for England in a little over 2 weeks, and if the story isn't finished before then, there will likely be some delay as I will likely be "away from keyboard" during the trip. Cross that bridge when I get to it, I guess.:confused:

Regarding her "visibility", she could be set to "discoverable" like computers on a network can be. She could be just another node as far as other entities on the network are concerned. Each of the characters, such as the Roman soldier, old woman, Puritan, etc. would need to be semi-autonomous AIs to be able to interact and respond to what she says and does. And the system would have to have low-level access to her brain functions to be able to communicate neural input to it as if she were really sensing it through her own faculties of sight, hearing, touch, etc., plus feedback to read her responses. The island simulation could be spilling her information out across the network where the other AIs can see it.

An AI like the Roman, designed and programmed to simulate capture and crucifixion of escaped slaves and criminals, might continue hunting her as long as he could "see" her through the network. But where did he come from? And who created a crucifixion scenario in the network?

Feel free to disregard all of the above as the BS that it is, this is just me thinking out loud. :rolleyes:
 
An AI like the Roman, designed and programmed to simulate capture and crucifixion of escaped slaves and criminals, might continue hunting her as long as he could "see" her through the network. But where did he come from? And who created a crucifixion scenario in the network?
Yes, we are thinking along similar lines, I think. I know where he came from. ;)
 
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