Ashes of Foreverland

By Tony Bertauski

Tyler Ballard was in prison when his son created a dreamworld called Foreverland, a place so boundless and spellbinding that no one ever wanted to leave. Or did. Now his son is dead, his wife is comatose and Tyler is still imprisoned. 

But he planned it that way. 

The final piece of his vision falls into place when Alessandra Diosa investigates the crimes of Foreverland. Tyler will use her to create a new dimension of reality beyond anything his son ever imagined—a Foreverland for the entire world. 

Danny, living outside of Spain since escaping the very first Foreverland, begins receiving mysterious clues that lead him to Cyn. They are both Foreverland survivors, but they have more in common than survival. They become pieces of another grand plan, one designed to stop Tyler Ballard. No one knows who is sending the clues, but some suspect Reed, another Foreverland survivor. Reed, however, is dead. 

Everyone will make one last trip back to Foreverland to find out who sent them. And why. 

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

HOW IMPORTANT ARE NAMES TO YOU IN THIS BOOK. DID YOU CHOOSE THEM BASED ON SOUND OR MEANING?
Almost all of my books have names with special meaning, some foreshadowing a big twist. In The Annihilation of Foreverland, Reed's name was symbolic of his ability to tolerate suffering, bending in the face of gale forces but never breaking. 

WHERE DOES YOUR TOMORROW SPRING FROM? IN OTHER WORDS, HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH THE CRAZY WORLD?
Sometimes, I can't remember how the story started by the time I get to the end. The Annihilation of Foreverland started with the premise of identity. I wanted to write it as a YA book in the science fiction dystopia genre in a way that slowly unfolded as well as questioned who we are and explore our fear of death, and what we're willing to do to avoid it. Like all of my stories, it does have a romantic angle mixed into the action. Because it should.

GIVE YOUR BOOK THE BECHDEL TEST. IT HAS TO HAVE AT LEAST TWO (NAMED) WOMEN IN IT WHO TALK TO EACH OTHER ABOUT SOMETHING BESIDES A MAN.
I failed because there's only one female in The Annihilation of Foreverland. However, the young adult sequel (Foreverland is Dead) passes with flying colors since its mostly female characters that rarely talk about men.

WHAT SORT OF BODY COUNT ARE WE TALKING HERE?
The bodies die, but not necessarily the characters. Chew on that a second.

HAVE YOU WRITTEN IN ANY OTHER GENRES BESIDES YA DYSTOPIAN?  WHAT DREW YOU TO YOU THIS GENRE?
I've been fascinated by consciousness, identity and what this all means since I was young. I would read my grandfather's science fiction books with elements of artificial intelligence and alternate realities and wonder what happened when they died? I suppose that's why all of my writing deals with the big mysteries of life in one way or another. In a way, I write for my own exploration, in a sort of thought experiment approach, pulling apart our identities, exploring what makes us who we are. If I lost my memories, would I still be me? If I had my body parts replaced with synthetic replications, at what point would I not be me? Do I even need a body? 

What am I?

A few years ago, I figured I'd write a romance novel. Since all of my books have a romantic element, I thought it would be fun. Halfway through the novel, I found myself thinking more and more about the next project—a dystopian idea. So 40,000 words in, I scrapped the romance novel and got back to what I love. Science fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DeadPixel Publications
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502253743

Book preview

To the lost.

To the lonely.

SPRING

We all...

FALL...

DOWN.

An Incomplete List of Foreverland Survivors

Danny Boy, whereabouts unknown

Cyn, last known whereabouts Minneapolis, Minnesota

Reed, whereabouts unknown

Harold Ballard (The Director), son of Patricia and Tyler, whereabouts unknown

Tyler Ballard, ADMAX Penitentiary, Colorado

Patricia Ballard, comatose at the Institute of Technological Research, New York City

Tyler

ADMAX Penitentiary , Colorado

Tyler stepped onto the ledge.

The Italian marble was cold, his toes gripping the chiseled edge. The platform cantilevered from the roof a thousand feet above traffic. Taillights were strung throughout Central Park, starting and stopping, merging and turning, moving through the city like corpuscles.

He couldn’t smell the exhaust from up there, couldn’t hear the horns or the congestion, the shouts and whistles.

He held out his arms, Christ-like, tipped his head and inhaled the wind untainted by human grime, from the trash of selfish thoughts. Only the fierce breeze in his ears.

Sorry to keep you waiting. Patricia crossed the portico.

Her loosely fit dress fluttered around her feet. The brightly lit glass walls of the luxury apartment—the only such apartment atop the Bank of America building—betrayed the layers of beige fabric that otherwise would hide her pear-shaped body. Her graying hair flowed to her shoulders.

I can’t stay long, he said.

She looked through him with those penetrating eyes, a smile reflecting somewhere in their depths. Her scent carried through the cutting breeze, her dress snapping like taut flags. He stopped on the bottom step.

You don’t have to leave.

You know I can’t stay, love.

A beige pile of fabric fell at her bare feet. Her naked body was without wrinkles; the sweep of her hips hypnotic. None of her curves were as alluring as the tight curls of her lips pushing into her cherub cheeks.

He watched her from the bottom step, watched her dive into the glass-bottom pool that was suspended over the thousand-foot drop. The water, crystal blue.

She hardly made a ripple, swimming beneath the surface to the other end. Her strokes were long, water beading from her fair skin. Tyler waited with a towel. He wrapped her as she stepped out, water dripping from her nose.

The taste of her filled his sinuses.

He pulled the towel over her shoulders. This time, it was he that turned away and climbed back onto the ledge. The night consumed the streets. Red lights flared; headlights glared. And there, on the horizon, between the stiff city edifices lining the streets like metallic offerings to an industrial God, just past the end of the road where the sun would rise in the morning, he saw the flicker of gray static. Nothing existed beyond that.

Stay? That would give me no greater pleasure.

But staying in this reality, this world that Patricia dreamed, would be so small. Despite her ability, she could dream up the city.

Stay, he could—he wanted to.

But stay and the human population would never know the true freedom of another reality—this reality.

Foreverland.

The hosts? he asked. How are they doing?

You know your answer. Her shadow crept up behind him. Hope is your albatross, dear.

Hope. It was indeed his bastard.

He was not so desperate to lay his future, his life, on the fragile ice of hope. But never had he thought he would be this old, this close to the edge of dying. He couldn’t live forever. Not in the flesh.

Unless they found someone with the potential, the brain structure, to host a limitless Foreverland, one that went far beyond the city, past the horizon, one that replicated this planet.

This universe.

A new reality.

Patricia couldn’t do it. Neither could he. Even Harold, their son, if he were alive, could only do so much. But someone out there could. There had to be. And that was why he asked, that was why he hoped.

Maybe they would find one before this flesh ended.

Her hands slid over his ribs, laced over his stomach. I may have found one, she whispered.

What?

A viable host.

What do you mean? Why didn’t you tell me?

Hope, dear. I didn’t want to stoke it any more than you have. I’m taking a chance, but I’ve sensed her exceptional potential.

You have her already?

She nodded. I’ve already had her. She is dreaming her own Foreverland and it is wondrous.

His chest fluttered. She agreed to host?

No. She doesn’t know...I had to take her, dear. She has no idea.

It was risky, but abduction was nothing new. Why didn’t you tell me?

I wanted to be sure.

And you’re sure?

She kissed his chin. A goddess.

Chance was a suspicious mistress, the harbinger of hope. And, try as he might to deny it, he was willing to gamble on a goddess.

Because a goddess is what we need.

In order for her Foreverland to stabilize, she said, we’ll need her to sleep.

How long?

A year.

A year? They had already squandered so much time on the other hosts. Is this really our last chance to bring Foreverland to the world?

He pulled her close.

Their lips met, warm and wet. The wind howled. He held her until it was time to leave her, to return to the physical realm, where his body of aging flesh waited. Her floral scent lingered in his nostrils, but a faint layer of decay sifted through it.

A year, he thought. One more year.

A point burned his forehead like a red-hot wire. He reached up, felt the slither, the sting of a wasp as the surgical steel needle slid from his forehead.

He stared through a blurry veil at a cracked ceiling.

A metal door clanged. Two prison guards stepped next to Tyler Ballard’s bed and waited. He took his time, letting his feet touch the floor. He rubbed the thin spotted skin on his knobby hands for warmth.

The floral scent faded.

Alessandra

The Institute of Technological Research, New York City

Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention? someone shouted. The tour is about to begin.

Alex put her phone away. Her husband had texted, wondering how long this visit would last. If he timed his exit from the Guggenheim, he could pick her up without parking.

Journalists crowded to the front. Alex dumped her coffee and moved along the wall, hands still shaking. A cold wave vibrated inside her like a chilled metal coil, a set of eyes scanning her organs. Her teeth damn near chattered, but she wasn’t cold.

Nerves?

Through a gap of photographers, she saw the Institute’s PR person standing in front of heavy double doors. Like the rest of the lobby, they were forest green, imbued with a sense of calming and healing. She had a sense that beyond those doors it was quite the opposite.

I would like to welcome you. The small woman’s name was Ellen; that’s what the badge said. She was in her early thirties, her teeth flashing a white smile. This is a very exciting day at the Institute of Technological Research. You were handpicked to see our work up close, to ask our scientists questions. It’s through you the public will know what we’re doing.

She made it sound like they’d found golden tickets in chocolate bars when, in fact, they gave select tours all the time. But it was by invitation. Alex’s invitation came as a surprise. She wasn’t a journalist anymore and didn’t work for a major newspaper like the others. She squeezed between a young photographer and the wall. Her black hair fell over her face.

She rubbed her hands. Her lips, cold.

Before we do, Ellen said with her flashy smile, I want to emphasize a few items. You have all signed a release and agreed to the above-mentioned rules.

She held up a sheet of paper.

Your enhancements, should you have them, will remain off during your stay.

There was a rumble of laughter.

I know, I know. We’re the pioneers of biomite research, but while you’re inside the laboratory, we don’t want to run the risk of interference.

The punchline wasn’t off, it was should you have them. Every journalist on the planet had a certain degree of biomites—the recently invented and globally distributed artificial stem cells—seeded into their brain to help with memory, data processing and, for some, emotional regulation. And this was where biomites were manufactured. Alex had the maximum allowed by the government. They probably all did.

And that’s why I’m cold.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shut off her internal enhancements. In the last hour, it had become quite clear how much they helped regulate her emotions.

It sucked to be plain human.

Your identification has an imbedded monitor. Ellen lifted the card around her neck. Keep it on you at all times.

She added a few more pleasantries before pushing the doors open, leading the group down a stark white hallway. Alex worked her way to the end of the line. The smell of gourmet coffee was quickly replaced with sterilizing solutions and artificial clay—the distinctive odor of biomites. The place felt a bit too much like a 1940s asylum.

Scientists stood in doorways, wearing white lab coats, smiling and waving like they were extras hired to watch a parade.

Alex? The man in front of her had turned while walking.

Oh, hey, Mason. Didn’t recognize you.

"¿Come esta?" the balding man asked. How are you?

"Muy bien. Being Latina, she often entertained bits of Spanish. How have you been?"

Soulless.

They had briefly worked together at The Washington Post. They caught up on gossip in between stops as Ellen briefed them on the function of the various labs—where new strains of biomites were being developed, how disease would be erased, how biomites would regenerate new limbs.

All the promises of heaven on Earth.

What are you doing here? he asked.

Following the story, what else?

She didn’t want to tell him the truth, that she’d received an unexpected invitation to such an exclusive event. A man named Jonathan Deer. His name was a joke, but she’d done some research and discovered he was employed by the Institute and wanted her to see the new and exciting developments for herself. She was already writing about animal cruelty and was about to expose practices in all sorts of industries.

This wasn’t even on her radar.

Congrats on the book, by the way, Mason said. Took balls to go into North Korea like that.

That’s what they say. Alex fiddled with her monitor badge.

This your next project?

She shrugged. Maybe.

Good luck, if it is. Getting inside information out of these people will make North Koreans look like old ladies. No offense.

You calling me old?

Calling you a lady.

That’s a first.

His laughter was more of a grunt. Alex was in her mid-forties but turned heads like she was closer to twenty. Mason knew she was the furthest thing from a beauty queen. Those that didn’t were quickly discarded.

They gathered at another set of metal doors. Ellen waited until everyone was crowded together. They were about to enter Wonka’s factory, only there wouldn’t be a chocolate river. Photographers held up their cameras; reporters lifted their phones.

So far, you’re disappointed. Ellen smiled and many of them laughed. You didn’t come all this way to be greeted by computer programmers and lab directors, or even get a history lesson on biomites, but it was part of the package deal. Now that’s out of the way, we can get to the good stuff. I ask that you kindly find a seat in order for us to properly introduce the main thrust of our research. You will be allowed to explore once we are finished.

Someone raised their hand.

Hold your questions, Ellen interrupted. There will be time for that. I also want to remind you to avoid engaging in any degree of enhancement activity.

She paused, let that sink in, and then opened the doors.

There were exclamations of surprise, a storm of photography clicking and whirring. Alex could only see black walls above the group. They were reflective, like glass.

You all right? Mason was looking at Alex’s chest.

She was holding the badge/monitor, but her hands were shaking almost violently.

I’m cold. Her breath quivered. Are you?

He shook his head.

She rubbed her face. They shuffled ahead a tiny step at a time. Mason was the first to get a glimpse of what was around the corner and stopped. Alex bumped into him.

A scientist stood next to a lone table. His hair was unnaturally black; his face thick and square.

It resembled an operating table, but the surface was cushioned. An orangutan rested on it, his long orange hair contrasting with the green cushion, his weight sinking partway into it. There was nothing alarming about being so close to a sleeping primate.

It was the needle.

The long, surgical barrel was positioned in the middle of his forehead.

Ladies and gentlemen, Ellen was announcing, if you would kindly find a seat, we can get started.

It was a bit like herding kindergarteners away from an ice-cream truck, but the crowd eventually moved to a small block of chairs. Alex took the last seat in the back row, oblivious to the opposite wall’s reflection.

Good morning. It was the scientist who spoke, his accented English slightly broken. Russian, maybe? I am Dr. K.P. Baronov, director and lead scientist at the Institute. I trust Ellen has answered your questions up to this point.

Ellen was sitting separate from the group.

Very good. I know you have many questions, and I will answer them shortly. I also know you are very educated in this process, it was why you were selected for such exclusive tour, but I would like to update you on what we do here and why.

If he thought they were educated on needles in foreheads, he had been misinformed. Alex had seen pictures, but that was it.

You understand, I am quite sure, that computer-assisted alternate reality, or CAAR, makes a direct connection with the organism’s frontal lobe via a surgical probe.

He half-gestured to the orangutan.

The subject’s awareness, or identity if you will, is in some ways transported out of the body and into a dreamlike state. During the inception of such technology, the identity of the subject was put into a computer, but, as some of you know, that is no longer an effective means of creating an alternate reality.

Why? Alex’s voice shook.

Mrs. Diosa. Ellen half stood. Hold your questions, please.

It is okay, Dr. Baronov said. It is very good question and why we brought you here. You understand that there are great many benefits that can occur through this method. We use orangutan because it is the smartest primate on earth besides humans. It is our hope that, with our research, this method will soon be accessible to all people.

What about permanent damage? Alex couldn’t stop herself. Ellen’s smile faltered, but the doctor nodded without hesitation.

Of course, that is good concern, he said. There was much to learn about this process and the obvious distress of the irreparable damage to one’s psychology. It has taken much research to perfect the procedure, but I feel confident you will see the benefits today.

How many test subjects did you kill? How many went insane?

We do nothing illegal at the Institute, Mrs. Diosa, the doctor said. In fact, we have made tremendous strides in the process. For instance, it will soon be possible to link minds without the needle by harnessing the power of biomite-enhanced brains, like yourselves. Your brain biomites will operate like wireless computers. We strive to improve the quality of life in our test subjects.

Is that why our enhancements are off?

In old method, the one discovered by Dr. Tyler Ballard, a computer was used to host an artificial environment, the alternate reality, if you will. The computer, though, is not efficient or suitable to respond to the soulful needs of a biological intelligence, like you or me. Or Coco.

He placed his hands on the sides of the orangutan’s head.

Coco is organic host, if you will. A network server, to borrow term from our computer friends. It is Coco that creates world in his mind for others to be transferred. He is host. It is his imagination that creates alternate reality.

A dream? Mason said.

Of sorts. The doctor raised his hand. Not anyone can become host. There is special quality to how the two hemispheres of the test subject’s brain operate, a certain degree of openness and creativity that make him or her ideal candidate. It is this degree that will limit the world he or she can create. For instance—the doctor waved his arms—this room is extent of the world Coco can create. Beyond there is nothing, like limit of universe.

And what do you hope to accomplish? someone asked. Some sort of virtual tourism? The animals, or test subjects, will pick up the tab of suffering for our pleasure?

Ellen stiffened, but the doctor calmed her with an easy hand. It is all right. I understand your apprehension. It is difficult to see organism with needle in forehead, but I assure you there is no discomfort. To answer question, what we have accomplished already is an improvement in psychological disorder. Test subjects emerge from altered states with increased intelligence and emotional stability.

Is there really a need to network brains?

The doctor smiled. We are stronger and happier when we are united.

In a new world?

Coco sets the rules of his world. It can be fantasy land or just like this.

For who?

That is very good question, Mrs. Diosa. The doctor walked around the table and went to the wall. The black surface mirrored his expression as he reached up and knocked. It rang like glass.

The murkiness began to clear, revealing dark lumps.

The biting chill inside Alex gripped her whole body, pressing the air from her lungs.

Everyone reacted.

There were small cubicles on the other side of the glass walls, like boxes stacked to the ceiling of various sizes with test subjects laying still and prostrate—mice, rats, rabbits, chimps and gibbons. One large gorilla filled the square in front of the doctor. They all had one thing in common.

A needle.

This is our community, the doctor said. There is convincing data to show that while their bodies remain stable and alive, their identities are currently in Coco’s world. And, more importantly—the doctor raised his finger—and this is very important for you to understand, they also contribute to Coco’s world. It is like ecosystem, you see. They are integral to Coco and Coco to them.

And Coco is god, someone said.

Maybe. The doctor turned to face them. We are still trying to understand how Coco creates the world’s rules, if he even knows he has created them. In other words, are the laws of this virtual world locked into place as they are in our world? Or can he change them?

Can they go back to their bodies?

The doctor chuckled. Yes, Mrs. Diosa. They wake as if sleeping a wonderful dream.

With no reality confusion?

"There is some, yes. The dream state is very convincing. But that is the beauty, you understand. We have created a dream that is inseparable from reality, a dream where time is malleable, where time can go fast or slow. Imagine the possibilities to help soldiers suffering from post-traumatic syndrome? The handicapped can walk, the blind can see.

The test subjects living in Coco’s Foreverland, if you like to call it that, can experience entire lifetime in the span of one minute in flesh. Time, you know, is a dimension. We can live many lives this way, you understand.

But they return to their bodies? someone asked. The right ones?

The doctor glanced at Ellen, slowly nodding. Yes, the correct bodies.

But you said—

If you are referring to Foreverland body switches, I assure you there is nothing of that nature occurring at the Institute. It was unfortunate, indeed, that people have used it for such purposes, but such is the nature of many things. Bullets can be used for good and evil, yes?

The doors opened. The scientists from the labs they passed earlier entered.

And I think now would be good time to explore, yes? He lifted his arms, staring at Ellen.

You may look through the lab, she said. You may ask questions. Please do not touch anything. As Dr. Baronov stated, this is a living organism.

The group moved slowly at first. Alex, too. Her leg muscles were stiff. She clamped her hands together to keep them from quivering. The journalists spread out and, little by little, cornered scientists with questions. Photographers were madly capturing the scene.

Especially Coco.

Alex hovered at the end of the table, working her way near the orangutan’s head. The primate smelled earthy and damp. The cushioned table hugged him. Occasionally, the whir of internal rollers massaged his body, reducing the probability of bedsores. Unless he moved, his muscles would atrophy, the blood would pool.

How many lives have they lived already? Maybe years have passed.

She couldn’t help wonder if the doctor was right: this could be the next step in evolution, a new revolution. The reality revolution.

Security stood nearby. If she gave in to the temptation and reached out to stroke the orange hair, to touch the eyelids or puffy patch of flesh around the surgical needle, she would surely be removed.

A bead of saliva glistened on the corner of Coco’s mouth.

Foreverland. The doctor dared to use that word with what they were doing, but it was probably inevitable. If the public was going to embrace this technology, they would surely associate it with that word. He would need to reinvent it, to purge it of past associations.

Alex had read of Foreverland, of the boys and girls forced to visit a virtual reality. It was an odd name since it was anything but forever, a reality that was limited in space and the imagination of the host.

Unless the right host is selected. According to the doctor, it would then become forever, indeed.

So he’s dreaming? A photographer was kneeling to capture the needle at eye level. He looked over the camera at Alex. "How do we know we’re not dreaming?"

Limits, she said. There wouldn’t be anything outside this room.

The young man raised his eyebrows, seemingly unaffected by the grotesque subject matter. They were in the belly of the experiment, surrounded by victims of research. All the photographer could think about while capturing all of this was the potential of the dream, his youth, his resilience.

Have you done any human trials? someone asked.

The many questions and answers bouncing off the hard floor and glass walls lulled. Many of them turned toward Dr. Baronov, waiting for his response to this particular question.

We have not. We follow the law.

What about Patricia Ballard? a journalist asked. Where is she?

Yes, she is here. He addressed the room as a whole, an answer he wanted to be clearly heard. She has been here for quite some time, but I assure you there has been no experimentation. We are only serving to support her life. I believe you would agree we are best suited for such purpose.

No research at all?

I believe you know her story, so I will not repeat it. It is very unfortunate what she was forced to do and we are respecting her life, as we were asked to do. That is all I will comment, thank you.

Alex noticed doors on the other side of the room, not the ones where they had entered. Guards stood in front of them. Judging by the lock, the guards weren’t necessary. But, perhaps, what was behind them wasn’t meant to be seen at any cost.

Coco’s nostrils flared.

Alex swore she heard something guttural beneath his chin. The photographer was too busy reviewing his shots to notice.

What about reports that Patricia is still hosting a Foreverland? someone asked.

The doctor will not comment further, Ellen announced. We would like the focus to remain on the process and the future of this technology.

A few more voices chimed in. The journalists had what they came for. Now they were going for the great white shark, the jewel of this story: Patricia Ballard, the only living human to host a computer-aided alternate reality.

Is she currently connected to a CAAR network? someone asked.

Something moved beneath Coco’s eyelids. His eyes moved back and forth as if, for the first time, he was experiencing REM. The saliva spread into surrounding wrinkles.

How do you respond to reports of using synthetic brain cells on Patricia? another person shouted. "Could she