Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

I’m dying!

He tumbled, caught glimpses of open sky, felt freezing cold, and gasped for breath. Intense pain accompanied impressions of people, baggage, seats, metal sections, and the shock of contact with something, and then . . .

He awoke. Not the instant awareness of being jolted by an alarm or the gentle rising from dozing in and out, but a gradual recognition of existence.

All he heard was his breathing. Wherever he was, the air was odorless and still. When he tried opening his eyes, they ached. His whole body ached.

Finally, Joe’s eyes opened, and he stared up at a ceiling so white it hurt his eyes. He turned his head to the left, then to the right. He was in a room with walls of the same featureless white, with no hint of seams, tiles, windows, doors, or lights.

He tried to talk, to ask questions, but a croak came out.

“You can get water from the tube to the right of your mouth,” said a voice.

Joe turned his head, and something touched his cheek. He opened his mouth and a tube entered. He sucked cool water into his mouth. While it felt good, when he swallowed, it was as if the water fought its way over rocks. After several more swallows, it became easier. Finally, he pushed the tube out with his tongue.

“W . . . what happened? Where am I?”

“You were in an accident and were injured. Everything should be fully functional.”

Accident? What accident?

He couldn’t remember an accident. He was on a plane going to the meeting when . . . the plane. Sitting. The man and the Hispanic girl. Looking out the window. The dot. The dot getting bigger! The impact? Everything turning to pieces! His heart rate shot up as he remembered.

“Do not be alarmed. Everything is fine. We believe you are functioning within normal parameters.”

The voice sounded hollow. Recorded.

Functioning within normal parameters? Who the hell talks like that? I must be in a hospital. Where’s the staff?

He tried to move something besides his head: legs, arms, fingers. Nothing responded.

Why can’t I move? Am I paralyzed!?

“Everything is fine. You cannot move yet because I need to speak with you first. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” he rasped. “Where am I?”

The voice ignored his question. “What is your name?”

Joe said nothing, his mind racing, groping for solid ground.

“Please answer. What is your name?”

“Joe,” he mumbled. “Joe.”

“Your name is Joe? Is that your entire name?”

“Joseph. Joseph Colsco. Joseph William Colsco.”

“You have given three different names. Are they all equally correct, or is one more correct?”

“My full name is Joseph William Colsco, but people call me Joe.” The rasp in his voice was fading.

“Thank you, Joe.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, his tone hardening.

“You may think of me as your doctor.”

“Think” of you as—? What the hell is going on?

His mouth went dry again. He returned to the tube for more water and a moment to think.

“All right. You’re a doctor, and I was in an accident. Why can’t I move?”

“To keep you calm until we can talk,” said the voice with its odd flatness. It had an accent, though he couldn’t place it. That was unusual, because people from all over the world attended Berkeley, and he could easily identify most accents. This voice strangely lacked intonations.

“I will allow a little movement so you can be reassured. Test your fingers and toes.”

Joe clenched his hands, then splayed his fingers. He wiggled his toes. He wasn’t paralyzed.

He tried to sound calmer. “Yes, I can move a little. Why can’t I get up?”

“In time. Please answer more questions. This is to check your memory. Where do you live?”

“Berkeley, California.”

“What is our occupation?”

“I’m a chemistry graduate student at the University of California.”

“Where were you born?”

“La Mesa, near San Diego.”

“What is the name of the San Diego football team?”

“Huh? Who cares?”

“The name please.”

“The Chargers.”

“Now I will ask questions to test your mental responses. What is two plus five?”

“Seven.”

“The square root of twenty-five?”

“Five.”

“The cube root of 4913?”

“Gimme a break!”

“Please recite back the following numbers, three, five, eight, two.”

Joe complied.

“Three, five, two, two, seven, six, eight.”

He repeated the string of numbers again—barely.

“Five, eight, one, eight, three, six, two, seven, four, five, seven, five, nine.”

“Who the fuck can remember that many?!”

The questions continued, alternating from the trivial to the ridiculous. Joe was about to call an exhausted and angry halt when the questions stopped.

“Thank you, Joe. Your mental functioning seems to be satisfactory.”

Joe was too tired to respond.

“You will rest now, and we will talk more later.”

“Wait! What about some answ—”

Joe descended into a black void.

Then . . . awake again. This time suddenly, still looking at the same white ceiling. Joe opened his mouth to call out and realized he could move his arms. He drew them up in front of his face to look at his hands, rotated the wrists to view both sides, and flexed his fingers. While everything worked, the pallid flesh and his thin arms startled him.

“You may sit up,” the voice droned. “Be careful. You may feel dizzy.”

When Joe tried to sit up, it was as if his abdominal muscles had forgotten how to contract. He grunted and pushed against the surface with his right arm, struggling into a sitting position. He was on a platform two feet off a floor. The voice was right. He was so dizzy for a second, he thought he might faint. He sat, head hanging, hands gripping the edge of the platform, eyes closed until his head cleared.

The ceiling, walls, floor, and platform were all the same white. He was inside a ten-foot white cube, empty except for the low platform on which he sat.

He looked down. He was naked. His genitals were there but shriveled. His legs were pale, thin, and unmarred.

The accident! My leg!

He remembered the bone sticking out. Ribbons of blood. Now, there wasn’t a mark. What kind of hospital was this?

“Joe, can you catch this ball?”

“Ball? What ball?” Something thudded off his forehead. A blue ball about two inches in diameter bounced across the floor, hit a wall, and continued to ricochet around the room. It wasn’t the blueness that caught his attention, but the slowness with which the ball bounced and the height of the bounces. It was like he was watching a slow-motion film. That possibility was eliminated when the ball came within reach, and Joe reached out and grabbed it with his left hand. Another ball appeared—red this time. He caught it in his right hand.

“Good reflexes. Thank you, Joe.”

He stared at the two balls in his hands, then his fingers curled into fists. He opened his hands and gaped. The balls were gone!

A chill washed over him, and his breathing turned quick and shallow. A knot formed in his stomach.

“There is no reason to be frightened, Joe. You are fine. You were injured, but everything seems to be sufficiently repaired.”

Repaired? Like a toaster? And sufficiently? Sufficiently for what?

He drew several deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart. “Please answer my questions. Who are you, and where am I?”

“Joe, I am a simulation of a human being, designed to communicate with you.”