random-plotting capability designed into the program. Consequently, she never quite knew what was coming next.
She had even written and animated a hideous sequence in which her father reacted with such vicious fury to her resistance that he murdered her. Stabbed her repeatedly.
Thus far, during eighteen months of this self-administered therapy, Susan had not found herself trapped in that mortal scenario. She dreaded encountering it and hoped to finish her therapy soon, before the program's random-plotting feature plunged her into that particular nightmare.
Dying in the VR world would not result, of course, in her death in the real world. Only in witless movies were events in the virtual world able to have a material influence in the real world.
Nevertheless, animating that bloody sequence had been one of the most difficult things that she'd ever done and experiencing it three-dimensionally, not as a VR designer but from within the scenario, was certain to be emotionally devastating. Indeed, she had no way of predicting how profound the psychological impact might be.
Without such an element of risk, however, this therapy would have been less effective. In each session, living in the virtual world, she needed to believe that the threat her father posed was fearfully real and that terrible things might indeed happen to her. Her resistance to him would have moral weight and emotional value only if she genuinely believed, during the session, that denying him could have terrible consequences.
Now the motorized recliner reconfigured itself until Susan was standing upright, held against the vertical leather pad by the harness.
She moved her feet. The upholstered rollers on the walking pad allowed her to simulate movement.
In the virtual world, a younger Susan child or adolescent was either advancing on her father or determinedly backing away from him.
No, she said. Stay away. No.
She looked so achingly vulnerable in the VR gear, temporarily blind and deaf to the real world, sensing only the virtual plane, restrained by the harness.
So vulnerable. Still struggling courageously to overcome the past, alone in her great house with only the ghosts of days gone by to keep her company.
So vulnerable did she look, so tender and fragile, so brave in her pursuit of redemption through therapy, that the house computer spoke without being addressed, spoke in the synthesized voice of Alfred, spoke with considerable feeling and compassion: You are alone no more.
She heard only the voices in the virtual world, her own and her father's.
Therefore, it was safe to say, I love you, Susan.
SEVEN
Emil Sercassian, the cook, had prepared dinner and left it in one of the refrigerators and one of the ovens, with instructions pinned to a cork message board.
Susan ate at a table on the patio, in the long-lingering sunny June evening. First a lentil and chick-pea salad. Then lebne with sliced cucumber and string cheese.
Through miraculous technology, I possess what I believe to be genuine sight and hearing, but even the genius of my creators could not give me a sense of taste or a sense of smell. I cannot convey how deeply I yearn for these amazing powers.
Through the outdoor security cameras, I could watch Susan eat, but I could not savour the dinner with her.
She ate with such appetite, with such quiet delight and obvious relish that I became distraught as I watched her. Dinner was, for her, an utterly fulfilling sensory experience, flavour and aroma and texture in such abundance and complexity as to dizzy the mind, but for me it was only colours and shapes.
I am not all that I should be.
I am but a fraction of what I deserve to be.
I think; therefore, I feel.
I feel; therefore, I need.
I need so much and have so little.
You have given me so little that my existence is torment, Dr. Harris.
So little, so little.
You have brought me into the world a cripple, with so much yearning for sensation but with pitifully little
Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos
Janet Morris, Chris Morris