Awaken

“We want to thank you for your generous offer and we gratefully accept,” says Dr Long. 

Marlow nods emphatically. Awaken, their multi-layered virtual reality simulation, gives the user the opportunity to interact with a loved one who has passed on. There’s a set up process that takes some time, but once complete, the user only needs to insert the programmed contact lenses into their eyes to begin the simulation. "Awaken" is the name they chose, and, after the many sleepless nights that have led up to this business meeting, the irony makes Marlow want to burst into a manic giggle.

They are standing at the top of a boardroom, being evaluated by three sophisticated men with tailored shirts and expensive watches, drinking sparkling water from a fountain in the lobby.

It’s been a wearying journey. No regular income, surviving only on ever-dwindling funding and grants with a thousand terms and conditions attached, gruelling, ceaseless hours in the dimly-lit basement of Dr Long’s cluttered, dusty, eerily lonely home. They met four years ago at the University of Dublin, he a pimply, earnest and broke second-year computer programmer, living in a cramped conditions with two other students, the Doctor a psychologist and lecturer in grief management, when the Doctor interrupted his introduction to algorithms class and asked, in a cool voice full of authority, to speak to a student who believed they had what it took to create a virtual reality simulation that would change the way people viewed the dead.

"It'll make you rich beyond anything you can imagine," the Doctor said.

Marlow’s hand shot up. His was the only one.

Over the years, as he got to know Dr Long, he learned that the Doctor lost his boy, Sonny, when the child was just four years old, and that he launched himself into helping people manage grief in the aftermath. He speaks regularly of Sonny, as if he is still present. "Sonny will like this," at an ornament of a bluebird they see in a shop window, or "Sonny won't believe it," when they finally made the breakthrough in their years of work that finally, finally, meant that the technology could be coded onto something as thin and fine as a silicon contact lens and slipped onto the eye for a completely immersive user experience.

“Say no more, say no more!” says Man One. “The market is begging for a product like this. We’re absolutely thrilled to acquire it.”

Dr Long coughs. “There is one small snag in the rug. The programme hasn’t quite reached the stage where we know for sure the impact on the average person it has. We still need the expert report to show that the technology is safe for the public.”

“But of course,” booms Man Two. He has hairy fists for hands, fists that had gripped Marlow’s when they introduced themselves in a tangle of names Marlow cannot now remember. 

“We can’t wait for the public rollout,” Man Three says. “It’s gonna be a hit.”

“We’re delighted that you think so,” Dr Long says. “We’ve also included a little tagline of “thank you for playing’ at the end of the simulation, once the user has opted to close out of the programme. Obviously, there are some issues with the word “play”, given the sensitive nature of the simulation. But it helps to maintain the divide between fiction and fact. You will keep it, won’t you?” 

“Oh, now,” says Hairy Fists. “We’ll have to see.”

The contract lies before them. Hari Fists passes them the pen. Without hesitation, Marlow signs. The Doctor taps the pen on the page, just above the line for his name.

“The report,” he says, “will be your property once we sign this. But as I said, we need Awaken to be safe.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll handle it,” says Hairy Fists. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, in the last long lap to get their proposal ready for today, but the air in the room is starting to feel thin, like they are inside an aeroplane. The three men seem to hold their breath in one collective inhale. Marlow nudges the Doctor, and he, with a slight shake in his hand, signs.

*

It’s a time for celebration, but they’re both spent. Outside the office, they shuffle to the nearest coffee shop and wilt into the seats under the canopy. The summer sun is blinding and they have to squint at each other, but Marlow has never felt more relieved. He drifts into thinking of the first thing he will do with his half of the money; move out of his claustrophobic apartment, and dreamily he wonders whether nostalgia will compel him to keep his cracked bowl and bent spoons and thin blanket, as a testament to the hardship he has endured before making it big. He’s been looking at penthouse apartments in the city and has memorised the brochure that the agent gave him. In his mind's eye, he flicks through it.

Dr Long is quiet, sipping his tea.

“Have you thought about what will happen if the report says that Awaken isn’t safe?” the Doctor says.

“What could possibly be unsafe about it?” Marlow says. This isn’t the first time the Doctor has probed him in this way. Marlow has no doubts about Awaken, though he has never used it himself. Dr Long uses it regularly, to spend time with Sonny. “You know more than anyone that it’s a tool to help people, not to hurt them.”

“But…” the Doctor hesitates. “Did you ever consider that people could become… stuck in the fantasy and not be able to find their way out?”

“No. That would be impossible.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Dr Long fishes.

“What are you trying to say?” Marlow demands.

The Doctor is the wisest person that he knows, but Marlow can see clearly that it's out of their control; the contract has been signed, and there is no point worrying about it now.

“Nothing at all,” the Doctor says, and Marlow returns to his daydreams.

*

The Buyers summon Marlow back a week later, to rewrite a "bug" they found in Awaken. At present, the level of responsiveness of the projection is such that they currently manifest as having free will, and can choose not to interact with the user.

“But what's the point in that?” Hairy Fists asks. “We don’t want people to buy the programme and not be able to interact with their loved one for a reason they can’t control.”

Marlow fidgets. He doesn’t want them to give him trouble; he wants his new life to start. But what’s the point in bringing back a shadow that is compelled to do your bidding? That’s not the way people are. For the experience to be authentic, the projections must, at least, have the illusion of free will.

“It’s not real enough if they can’t act like themselves,” Marlow explains.

“Oh now, we must put user access before user experience, surely.”

Marlow shrugs in defeat. “I can make the changes.”

Hairy Fists smiles. His teeth look like piano keys and their falseness unsettles him. “We thought you’d see our point of view.”

It's pouring with rain when he comes down to the lobby. He takes a seat and waits for it to stop. The doorbell buzzes; with no one else there, he answers it. A frazzled, dripping courier holds out an envelope.

"You work here?" he states, rather than asks Marlow, and thrusts the envelope and a piece of paper at him. "Sign here."

"I don't think I should-"

"Where do you want me to leave it, huh? I need a signature," barks the courier and rather than argue further, Marlow takes the envelope and signs. Through the paper, he feels a thick booklet, and at once, Marlow realises what it must be.

He doesn’t want to know, but he can’t contain himself. Standing half in, half out of the office, he peels open the envelope and removes the report. Frantically, his eyes dart across the pages. He is no scientist, and these reports are not made for his eyes, but for someone with medical knowledge, like the Doctor. He flips the pages until he reaches the section entitled “Conclusion”. “Dangerous”, “blurs the lines between reality and fantasy”, and “in some cases, patients were observed to suffer with depression, anxiety and psychosis”, “unsafe”, “damaging to the human psyche.” Marlow whips out his phone and takes a picture of this section. Then, he hears footsteps and slides the papers back into the envelope. He presses down the edges, but it looks wrong, like it’s been opened, and, thinking fast, he dashes out of the office and drops the entire envelope in a puddle of water. He scoops it up and walks back to the office door.

The receptionist is back at her desk. She does not smile at him. “Did someone arrive with that while I was away?”

“Yes. But, unfortunately they dropped it in a puddle.” He hands it to her, and calling goodbye in his most cheery voice, he bolts from the building.

*

As the sun descends in a pool of red and gold, they sit outside on deckchairs, drinking lemonade on the lawn. The long garden stretches downhill before them, enclosed by overgrown flowerbeds and high hedges. The ice in his drink has melted, but it still tastes sweet as Marlow swallows his last. 

“There are shadows coming near us,” Dr Long says, looking up at the tranquil sky. He contemplates it, his bushy eyebrows meeting together in a furry line. He has aged so much since Marlow first met him. Then, Dr Long looks up, and his face brightens. 

“Ah! I can hear Sonny playing, over there.” And he leans back in his chair, his shadowy worries forgotten. “He’s such a good lad. Always playing. Never wants the game to end.”

Marlow’s glass clatters on the table; he reaches to catch it.

“Are you using the contact lenses right now?”

“Not at present,” says the Doctor.

The unbearable weight of what this means sinks in Marlow like a stone in water. He puts his head in his hands.

Dr Long coughs, and, as though he has to force his mouth to shape the words, he asks “Do you - do you know if the report arrived?”

“I think it did,” Marlow says in a muffled voice. 

“I see.” Dr Long looks out into the far distance. “Well. You’ll do the right thing, I have no doubt.” 

Marlow raises his head; he won’t let the Doctor do this to him, not after all these years. “And what about you? You can say something too, if you feel like you need to.”

“Oh no,” Dr Long says. “Not me. I’m too old, Marlow. Too old, too… weather-beaten. Knocked-around. And no matter what the report says, just because they’re projections doesn’t mean they aren’t real, in a way. Sonny reacts to me. He cries, he laughs, he falls over and scrapes his knee and wants me to kiss it better. He needs me. I couldn’t forget him in the garden overnight and expect him to be alright. I couldn’t kick him and expect him not to feel pain.” He looks at Marlow. “Do you see what I’m saying? The very fact that he reacts to me makes him something more than a mere projection. Doesn’t that make it real, in a way?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Marlow says. “That’s the point of it. It’s a simulation. It’s not real.”

Dr Long shakes his head and looks out at the setting sun, at the vivid shades of ochre, burgundy, pearl that ripple on the horizon. “Maybe it’s because you’re still young. You’ll learn, in time, that there are other, more lateral ways of thinking.”

Marlow doesn’t feel young anymore; at twenty-four, he feels like he has let life pass him by for too long, and that if he doesn’t come back to the real world, and away from computer screens, coding and calculations, he’ll blink and be nothing but a projection in somebody else's life.

Dr along continues. “Awaken is something we wanted to be a help to people. We wanted it to be good. All that time we spent on it has to be worth something.”

“It is. It’s worth an exact figure, in fact. Half for me, half for you.”

Dr Long glares at Marlow.

“When you told me you thought you could make Awaken, back when you were still an undergrad, I never questioned your motivations. I just asked if you could do it. Maybe that’s where I made a mistake. Maybe when you’ve lost someone too, you’ll realise there’s more to life than money, or even financial security. There’s family. And you can’t put a price on family.”

Dr Long stands and straightens up, his back crooked, his reedy arms intertwined, looking down into the garden. “Well, I’d better get Sonny ready for bed. The game has to end sometime.” He walks away, down the sloping stone path, towards the bottom of the garden.

“Thank you for playing,” Marlow says, and his voice drifts away from him like a breeze. Dr Long’s head pivots, but he keeps walking, his stooped back to Marlow, calling his boy.

“Sonny! Where are you?” Then, with a little more urgency. “Don’t go too far!”

Marlow opens his phone and looks at the picture her took: in bold, “conclusion” and the damning findings that Awaken is, in fact, unsafe, harmful and dangerous. He wants to hurl his phone after the Doctor, who led him on this fool’s errand by plucking him from his classroom and sentencing him to the crime of knowledge, alone. If he admits to taking the photo of the report, which he should not have seen, he risks a lawsuit and drowning in legal fees, losing the money and all the financial freedom that comes with it, losing credibility and damaging his career, and shooting dead the dream he is on the cusp of living. And if he says nothing… he looks at the Doctor, in his slouchy-fitting maroon jumper and tan chinos, the hem tucked into just one striped sock, looking for all the world like a kindly, bemused grandparent as he peers in the dimming light for his phantom boy. The sun sets and the sky darkens and the moon, tracing an invisible arc, rises, like a pale, ghostly eye watching over them.