Before Marilyn could tell the Jester to wait and that game results were already available to guide him, Christian removed his glasses and reached over to pull off those of his passenger. Marilyn didn't care; they were hours from destination. The Jester knew that even in a weak state, floating and infected by the META virus, Nick could be deadly if left unrestrained. Christian was wearing jeans and a worn out t-shirt given to him decades ago by a beer distributor. In space, astronauts did not wear sneakers, a belt and certainly did not carry wallets. In the corner, strapped to the seat, the pale CEO was grumpy. "I'm assuming you didn't fall back asleep through that wonderful introduction. How could you? Exciting, no?" The questions were rhetorical. The Jester did not await an answer before turning and reading from a floating instruction manual.
"No wonder people locked you in a padded room," began the old ghost, "eating the same food each day for half a century truly finished the job on your poor brain. What's the deal with you? Was your father a rapist? No need to answer, the way you walk gives it away." Christian's head turned abruptly to look at the man. He was smiling from ear to ear. The ghost continued, "Even impaired I would not have pegged you to be stupid enough to buy any of this crap. Don't you get that someone is making all of this shit up? The computer, the girl, the crashing worlds, really? None of it raises a flag to someone like you? You, of all people, given control of a spacecraft, handed to you by the President himself. You kidnapped me, and you will now do no less than save the world!" The man was convincing. Christian saw his captive was not finished. "You and I are watching virtual reality from inside a virtual world. The truth is, one of us is tied to a stainless steel lab table. My money is on you. If any of this crap is true, it's great to see humanity put its last hope of survival on you, that makes perfect sense. A psychotic killer with a mullet. Only someone batshit crazy could delude himself into buying any of this."
The Jester smiled. "Love it. Any more venom?" The Jester bubbled over with joy. He clapped his hands. "This lack of gravity makes it hard to torture someone. But I'm sure I can come up with something. I have a lot of work to do. I must assemble the canon. You know that by suggesting we're both in a virtual world, you aren't adding any obstacles to me slashing your throat, right?" The question also was not formulated to elicit an answer.
"You are serious about all of this?" whined Nick, pointing his restraints with a flip of his jaw.
"Of course I am. Even if you're 100% right, and I concede you may be, this remains more fun than I've had in decades. Someone wants to play with me; I like it."
"You don't mind being a piece in a larger game?"
"The President is calling me Jester, so no, I don't mind, and yes, I know my place on the board."
"Listen, what do you want? Money? The code to my safe? I can make you a very rich man."
The Jester's attention returned to the book as he replied, "You can't figure out why I dragged your ass here and you want to know. Fair. You and I have hours to live, not days. Make the best of them. I have a message here from someone who loves you down on Earth." Christian pushed a button on the wall without lifting his eyes from the page. The screen next to the button remained dark. "You knew I was lying and there is no video. How perceptive. No one loves you, right?"
"Rhetorical?"
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Of course, I don't care about you if I can be honest," replied the Jester. "In fact, you may be the only human on Earth more desiring of a slow and cruel ending; I promise you as much. A shame that our ending will only be quick and cruel."
Nick knew humans. Like most of his age, he was an expert at judging character and manipulation. The Chairman had realized the Jester was beyond reason or manipulation. His only chance of escape was to convince this crazy bastard that he was also equally unstable. Humor got his attention, "I would ask you to let me go, but I know many others around you over the years died just after saying those famous last words. You had to be a good serial killer, admit it," he said, smiling.
"I have a gift for you!" exclaimed the Jester. He floated to a locker and grabbed a large brown paper bag. "You are here for entertainment value." He opened the bag and pulled out the ugliest Christmas sweater known to man. It was mostly green, a toxic-waste shade. "I brought along this sweater for you. It was on sale only because it attracts hair and dust. So here is the game. You try to piss me off so much that I ignore any logic or reason and need to untie you to force you to wear this piece of art. Then, you grab something and try to wrestle me and gain your freedom. Sound good?" Nick's eyebrow would have raised if he still had them. The META virus truly did a number on the human body.
"You really are crazy. The genuine article."
"Is that a statement of fact or are you just making a point?"
"Why you?" asked the CEO to his captor. "Why you," he repeated. The question was fair; the Jester had even admitted as much. Christian was collecting pieces for his canon and snapping them in place. He was building something which looked like a large telescope on legs.
"I wondered the same thing myself. At first, I imagined it was because I am expendable. But prisons are filled with people that can follow a plan. I regard plans as vague suggestions, at best. Then I figured it was my unpredictability and intelligence. Maybe somehow that's what is needed. If you need chaos in a situation, I'm your best bet. Recently I have come to think the reason is that we would be great television. We're a flying reality TV set, the entire competition is televised, and it's showtime!" he waived at a camera. "And without wanting to toot my own horn, since I am a killer, unpredictable, they were sure I would make great TV. Ratings matter, I don't know why, but they do, I am convinced of that. We, my friend of fortune, my road companion, are entertainment for the idiotic masses."
"Another reason to untie me and see what happens."
"Ha! Nicely flipped around my draculian friend."
"It was worth a try. Can I know what I am doing here?"
"Is this where the villain of the story tells his plan to the hero? Do I really look that stupid?" He looked up and spoke in the air, "Marilyn?" The face of the first dual Earth-Martian citizen appeared. She was smiling.
"Rook to D4," she answered.
"F5-F4."
"What the fuck?" said the Ghost.
"We are playing chess," answered the female voice. "Mr. Maltais is rather good at it. He plays from memory, a rarity amongst humans."
"No wonder. In his padded room he played with himself, figuratively and physically," said the old man. "Man can't beat machines, you will never beat her," said the Ghost.
"Winning is achieved in a game both by improving oneself and beating the adversary. Since we cannot improve with weaker adversaries, losing is part of the process of playing chess." The calm and collected words from the Jester felt rehearsed. "No one can escape death, but that's not a reason not to try and stay alive. Marilyn, can you give my guest here vocal command to the music library and nothing else? He will deejay this adventure of ours. I'm sure he has great taste in music." Nick grinned.
"You got it," she said, "How is the assembly of the launcher going?"
"Honestly I can't believe glass balls will survive this launch. This goofy thing will kick hard, hundreds of g's."
"Leave the structural limitations to me. The balls will survive, my neighbors made sure of that. I suggest you print and assemble 100 rockets."
"Stairway to Heaven, original version," said the bald passenger. The music began to play. Christian was busy printing and clicking pieces of plastic. He visibly enjoyed the music.