Herculanium (30 page)

Amidst the tidal wave roar of the crowd, each home team player was introduced. As the players walked across the elevated platform in succession, a massive freestanding hologram display appeared above them, detailing each player’s statistics and abilities. With all the flying graphics surrounding each member, it was almost like watching an animated video game come to life.

All the players walked onto the court as the arena lights came back to life. Opposing coaching staffs were already busy planning strategies and yelling last minute instructions. Acknowledging each other with nods and points, the opposing teams took their positions around the tip-off circle on the half-court line. With the referees standing ready, the game was set to begin.

Running on tracks affixed on the arches located at each side of the court, the hoop and backboard units whirred into their apex position. Towering display monitors throughout the arena slowly came to life, covering the court action as if it were a rock concert.

Jayna leaned over and cupped her hand over Preston’s ear. “I’m so sorry, love, but we have to leave right now. I left something on back at the base that I really should turn off.”

Preston glared at her in disbelief, before finally realizing that she was just joking. She giggled loudly to herself, pleased with his reaction to her ruse.

Preston quickly turned his attention back to the game and held his breath.

Just as the referee took his position in-between the teams’ tallest players within the tip-off circle, the circle itself began to rotate in place. The referee threw the ball up with a staggered count, sending both players scrambling for first possession. With the home team controlling the tip to the delight of the crowd, the game was fully underway.

Future basketball lived up to all of Preston’s expectations, where each dribble, pass, dunk and shot was a devastating clinic in finesse and precision. The players ran up and down the court at an incredible pace, trading basket for basket with seeming wild abandon. When not attempting perimeter shots from beyond the three point free-throw line, players drove the ball through the lane and made monster dunks from every possible angle. A PSI meter above the hoop recorded the force of each slam, drawing gasps from the crowd. The physicality of the game was different, resembling more of an intense rugby game. There was no shortage of shoving and slamming among players when jockeying for the ball, nor the restraining of elbows flailing wildly in the air.

Preston was an astute student of the game. When the novelty of seeing his first game in over two hundred years wore off, he quickly began to analyze its many blatant and subtle nuances.

“There are seven players on the floor,” he observed. “Why is that? What positions are they supposed to be playing?”

“They added two new positions to make the game more interesting and challenging,” said Jayna. “There are two centers for each team now; a Deep Center, who plays below the rim, and a Perimeter Center, who plays beyond the arc. Each team also has one Tackle position, a rebounder/guard who’s the only player allowed to manhandle an opposing ball-handler. The other players must pay special close attention to him.”

“Tackle? What the hell is that? This isn’t fucking football.”

“Now I know we don’t need to have this conversation again,” said Jayna without turning her head.

“Just making an observation,” he said, almost apologetically. “But after all, you have to understand that this is
my
game. Naturally, I am going to be a little critical. There, you happy?”

“Beyond words.” She sat in her chair unblinking, with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Preston observed the game closely, making mental notes of every play and movement. He was able to monitor multiple actions at once, seeing the game both at its whole and its component parts. Despite the increased athleticism and roughhouse tactics, the game as he knew it still remained intact. He just couldn’t believe the leap and hang-time of these players.

Preston squinted his eyes. “The point-guard is mumbling. He’s talking to someone, correct?”

“Yes, that’s very astute of you,” said Jayna. “He’s receiving instructions by remote from the coaches on the bench. They’re in constant contact, deciding on plays and strategies. It’s an adaptation from your football era.”

But the more he watched, the more confusing it became.

“This may be a stupid question, but how are fouls called? These guys and gals are beating the shit out of each other, and I don’t hear any whistles.”

“Hence, the power of the refs. Actually, a ‘foul’ is anything excessive, which is quite arbitrary in this game.” She raised her hand and pointed to one side of the court. “Oh look, there’s one now!”

Two centers of each teams were engaged in a shoving match, leading one player to throw the other to the ground.

“That was a bloody wicked throw,” she said with glee. “He’s sure to receive a yellow card for that.”

“Yellow…card?” thought Preston, mouthing the two words quietly in disbelief.

“If he receives a red card next time, he’ll be thrown out of the game.” Jayna clapped her hands in excitement. “I doubt the games of your time were this exciting.”

“Yellow card.”
He couldn’t stop mouthing the words repeatedly. He threw his hands up and blew off the call in disgust.

“What’s wrong, love?” asked Jayna. “You don’t like the game?”

“I don’t get it. I honestly don’t get it.”

“This is basketball, dear Watson. This is your sport realized to its highest potential. In fact, you helped usher in this type of game.”

He gave her a puzzled stare.

“Don’t act innocent with me, Preston. I dug up your archival footage. Some of your antics mirrored—no, exceeded—the worst behavior here. How you and your comrades of the past behaved on the court determined what was acceptable to the public. All the altercations and arguing with the officials; it was your bloodlust that created all this.”

“Don’t give me that,” he said in quick defense. “I may have lost my temper a few times, but that was because of my passion for winning the game. I didn’t do it because it was part of the rules, and I sure as hell didn’t do it for entertainment value. My emotions were real.”

“No more so than the emotions of those players on the court. You can either thank yourself for its success, or blame yourself for what it’s become.”

“We played the games honestly. If you want to blame anybody, blame the officials. We acted the way we did because they couldn’t make a correct call to save their lives.”

“It’s a shame you don’t play anymore. With your attitude, you would’ve fit right in this place.”

Preston caught himself in mid-thought, unsure of how to respond. Was that an insult or a compliment?

“How dare you,” he fumed. “How dare you compare me to these sub-human, steroid-swilling junkies, who can’t even win a game without relying on tricks and gadgets.”

Jayna quickly lunged forward and grabbed him by his collar and belt, using them as handles to lift him off his chair and drive him to the floor. She calmly pulled out her gun and raised it in a ready position.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Preston, almost helpless and pinned to the ground. Amidst screams and cheers, a crowd of fans suddenly ran past them and onto the court.

“Sorry, mate. That throwing foul we had just became a bench-clearing altercation. Some hooligans are on the floor celebrating with their fists. Just relax. Security has the fans under control, and the refs are taking care of the players.”

More gasps and screams came from the audience, prompting Preston to get up and view the commotion.

“Stay down, mate. There are too many people around us in a frenzy. I’ll let you know when it’s clear.” She continued to make eye-contact with other security personnel, gesturing with her eyes and lips.

“Will you get
off
me?” He tried in vain to disguise the frustration in his voice.

Preston gently pushed Jayna aside as he stood up, brushing off his arms and legs. Gun still drawn, she stood protectively beside him as if she was another limb.

While a group of hooligans was being contained and arrested on one side of the court, the players and the referees were entangled in a huddle all to their own. The surrounding crowd seemed to expand and contract, changing in size with each swing and groan. Preston took one step up and balanced himself on his chair. Short of rushing the floor himself, he was determined to see the action and all its mayhem.

Referees dove into the fray, tackling players and dragging them out of the undulating pile. It more resembled a post-fight boxing riot than a simple basketball skirmish. As if reacting in unison, the referees then drew their batons and placed them against pressure points and nerve clusters on the players’ bodies, shocking them into submission. Preston cringed in pain himself as he saw the athletes twitch uncontrollably before falling limp to the ground.

Jayna shot her fist in the air. “No mercy,” she said with delight. She cupped her hands around her mouth and began to whistle in approval.

Preston slowly stepped down from his chair, suddenly engulfed in vertigo. He could feel a numbing chill running through his extremities, a fluttering blackness that drained him of all his strength and balance. What had been a deafening arena just moments before was now a soundless movie playing in slow motion. Vibrant colors and edges were reduced to simple shades and forms, bleeding into one another like fresh watercolors tilted on its side. He was alone in the arena, a single conscience of reason staring at a pantomime play of sins and cleansing. As if set to a symphonic score, the characters rose and fell with surreal grace and timing, barely human beneath the garish lighting. He could feel the weight of a jury’s stare billowing around him, suffocating him from just beyond his peripheral vision. Whispers and screams accompanied his heartbeat like a multi-part harmony, echoing in a cathedral chorus of rage.

“Preston, are you alright?”

Jayna was a mannequin posed on a chair, lifeless save the sadistic grimace on her face.

“What are you seeing? Talk to me, damn you. You almost keeled over backwards.”

Preston briskly shook his head, blinking his eyes repeatedly to wake himself up. He found himself sprawled over his chair, with Jayna standing guard above him.

“Easy there, chum. Don’t get up too quickly. We’re fetching you some water. You’ll be fine.”

He wiped his hand over his face, trying his best to settle his senses. He slowly propped himself up on his chair and looked around.

“I’m sorry; I don’t know what happened.”

“You looked like you had just seen a ghost.” She handed him a cup of ice-water to sip.

He drank in large swallows before crumpling the cup and throwing it aside. “I guess I just started seeing things.”

“What things?”

“I thought I saw…monsters; demons, things I’ve never seen before.” He caught himself drifting with his descriptions. He wasn’t quite convinced that what he saw was real.

“But there are no monsters here, Preston, just friends. Friends and fans. We’re watching a basketball game. Do you know what city you’re in right now?” Jayna began to sound like a boxing referee observing if a fighter was fit to continue.

“Of course, I do. I think all this excitement just started to get to me. I just need a few minutes to calm down.”

“Are you well enough to travel? Perhaps we should go…” Her English accent recovered its lilt.

“I am fine, thank you. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s game.”

“Monsters, eh? Demons? Maybe after the game, we should make an appointment to see Dr. Bentley.”

A monstrous applause swept across the arena, raising the sound levels to near deafening again.

“I think we should watch the game. What do you think?”

Jayna smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, mate. I have to hand it to you; you’re a tough cookie.”

Preston stared at the basketball court. The players were warming up again, going through their warm-up routines in spectacular fashion. There were no demons, hooligans, mannequins or fights breaking out. The floor, along with its occupants, was just as pristine as when he had walked in earlier.

“God, it was a nightmare,” he said with reflection.

“Preston Jones, what did you really see? You can tell me, I’m your friend.” Jayna’s warmth was genuine and sincere.

“I saw players getting electrocuted. I saw this crowd—I saw you—cheering for the mayhem. There was so much hatred and abuse of power. I saw myself in everyone, both sides, subject and viewer at the same time.”

“A bit of a poet, are we? But when did you see the nightmares? Was it before or after the fight broke out?”

Preston felt a chill run up his spine and stand the hairs on the back of his neck.

“I guess it was…during?”

“Then you must’ve missed the end of the scuffle. It was quite wicked. Five players were zapped, and one referee was critically injured. If you look up the scoreboard, his memorial is already on display.”

Preston closed his eyes as tight as he could.

“I can’t wait to see what happens after Half-time,” continued Jayna. “Is there anything else I can get you? Do you want another cup of water?”

He shook his head and positioned his body so it faced away from her. She shrugged her shoulders and resumed watching the players.

Leaning on the armrest, Preston tucked his chin into his shoulder and covered his face with his palm. He wept uncontrollably, his sobs drowned out by the applause of the crowd.

Bodega Bay, California, 2032

Melinda Reed closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Clipping the phone between her head and shoulder, she braced herself by holding on to the chair and refrigerator door handle as hard as she could. The dishes and drinking cups began to rattle in place, vibrating nearly to the point of breaking against each other. The motion could be felt throughout the house, coursing in intervals through its walls, frame and foundation. If this continued, she feared the windows panes would eventually crack into jagged panels, and her curio decorations would slide off their shelves and crash to the floor.