Author: George Bancroft

Bentus removed the neuralcom helmet, privately congratulating himself on an exceptional Kratalon performance.

Daylight had filled his room when he linked to the game. Now he found himself immersed in darkness. He had a nebulous sense that he had forgotten something. His phone showed more than a dozen angry messages from Anixtra, his fiancée. Had they planned to go out tonight?

The phone rang.

“Hi, babe.”

“Where have you been?” Anixtra demanded, her voice quavering with anger. “You’ve been playing that stupid game again, haven’t you?”

“So?”

“Do you even know what time it is?”

Bentus glanced at the display. “Ten P.M.”

“You were supposed to pick me up from campus at seven this morning.”

“No. That’s tomorrow.”

“No, Ben. It’s Saturday.”

He checked his phone. She was right. Had he really been playing for thirty hours? He was ravenous and parched. Apparently so.

“Juli picked me up,” she continued, then paused expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, still struggling to understand. “I owe you.”

After a profuse apology, Bentus drove across town to collect her for an expensive dinner. He expected food and sleep to restore his memory. When he reached her condominium, however, the building was dark. For a moment, he considered whether she had deliberately summoned him across town as retribution for standing her up, but quickly dismissed the notion.

“Where are you?” Anixtra asked when he called.

“At your house. No one’s here.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m at 74 Allcrest. I’ve been here hundreds of times.”

“I haven’t lived there for six months! Seriously, Ben, what’s wrong?”

Bentus froze. Her last statement began as an accusation and ended in concern. Of course she had moved, but somehow he couldn’t envision the new building. And how could he ask for her address?

“721 Arthur Street in Woodbridge,” she volunteered curtly before disconnecting.

He entered the address into navigation immediately, before the number could escape him. During the drive, he reclined and closed his eyes. Sleep deprivation explained all of this, he thought.

Near the destination, his phone rang again.

“You just passed me,” Anixtra said.

“No, navigation is taking me to 731 Arthur.”

“721! You’ve been here a hundred times. How do you not know this?”

“Right. Coming now.”

Bentus ordered the vehicle to stop. He stepped onto the curb and tripped. Embarrassed, he laughed and pushed himself upright.

He fell again.

The first fall seemed like an aberration. The second did not. His right leg would not move. He looked up and saw Anixtra running toward him. Her image gradually blurred and then doubled. Moments later, his vision faded into darkness.

********************************************************

Anixtra followed the physician into the intensive care unit. Bentus lay motionless, attached to a ventilator circuit and surrounded by monitors and venous lines.

“So this was a virus?” she asked. “Like a computer virus?”

“Not exactly. It’s a self-replicating algorithm. It was transmitted to his brain from the network through the neuralcom. Since then, it has been spreading rapidly through his cerebral tissue.”

“Is it curable?”

The physician frowned mildly. “The destroyed memories and abilities are permanently lost.”

Anixtra stared at Bentus.

The physician glanced toward the bed. “It’s called a ‘worm.’”