The VG Resource

It floated there, unmoving and uncomprehending, as the world moved on around it. The eyes were open, but they saw nothing more than an indeterminate green haze, flecked with tiny silvery particles.

Stasis.

That's what the scientists called it in the records, but the term belied what was really going on inside the containment tank. Although the figure inside showed now outward signs of life, something was working away tirelessly; for days; months; years. Something the world had never seen before, and would probably have to wait yet another 40 years before it would be ready to accept.

Necromancy.

Revival of the dead, but taken to a level beyond legends and magic – revival of the dead via cold, hard science. A project developed by the Chinese government as a method to keep their glorious dictator around forever. They weren't the first to attempt the concept, but they wanted to go one step further than the comatose brain on Life Support that was currently running the United States. This was a project to give a man flesh that didn't age, a stomach that never hungered, and clarity of mind that never decayed.

Immortality.

But projects on this scale have a lot to lose, and a development time of decades. It would be a disaster to have the leader of a global superpower vanish for years at a time, with a possibility that he might never return. What was needed was a test subject. Anyone would do – as long as their sudden disappearance wouldn't be noticed by the world at large; who wouldn't be missed.

Solitude.

He appeared to be alone from the view of the outside world. Residing in a cramped and filthy apartment, lit only by the faint glows of dated screens and blurry readouts. His thin frame among the spider web of wires littering the voluntary prison cast bizarre and intimidating shadows across the walls. And yet, through his eyes; the surroundings were entirely different. A blend of the sparse outlines and shapes that made up the digital plane; populated by unfathomably dense storms of information. Conspiracies, propaganda, rumours. And this lone individual was in the eye of the storm, in an almost enlightened state of being. He had lost his real name years ago; and only went by a pseudonym of mysterious origin – some mythic character from legends told ages ago.

Tom Guycott.

It didn't take long for the scientists to find their target. All it took was to lay some bait in the depths of the Internet, and let the responses trickle in. It was perfect in its simplicity and effectiveness. An invitation to beta test a secret interactive media project; one that boasted an unheard level of difficulty – a once in a lifetime experience catered to only the most hardcore enthusiasts. There was no way Tom Guycott could have resisted. It took mere minutes for the advertisement to be released into the Blue Nowhere before it was captured into Guycott's expansive networks. The irresistible opportunity had him instantly enthralled. Seconds later he had all traces of the notice erased from the public, sent a response back to the anonymous entity who had first posted the message; and for the first time in over a year, he imagined the world outside.

Infiltration.

The men in suits broke into the apartment in the dead of night, with practised stealth and efficiency. No one would detect the break in, nor raise any kind of alarm until long afterwards. Not even Guycott expected the response to his e-mail would be so swift. He was conscious when they entered (denizens of the Internet never slept – at least not for long periods), but he was only able to muster a strained squeak of surprise, when they clamped down on him. His interface cables were forcibly ripped from his neck and wrists, his mouth gagged, his eyes blindfolded. His arms and legs were expertly hog-tied, the muscular men working on him easily suppressing his feeble attempts to struggle and escape. Now entirely bound, he lay still – body drenched in sweat and face pushed against the filthy floorboards of his room. One of the men whispered into his ear.

“Congratulations.”

When Tom Guycott regained consciousness, his eyes were flooded with a bright, intense light, piercing the back of his eyes. Instinctively he tried to shield himself, but his arms wouldn't move. Nor would his legs. He screamed for help as he squirmed and tried his hardest to move any more than an inch, but whatever was restraining him held firm. The feeling of cold steel pressed into his back, and he slowly realised he was strapped to what must be an operating table of some kind – beyond the bright light were walls and a ceiling of pristine white.

Examinations.

Guycott was unable to move his head, but from the edge of his vision he could see a surgeon. His surgical mask and cap almost entirely his his face, revealing only a pair of unforgiving eyes, a deep green that Guycott couldn't help but stare into. He pulled against his restraints hopelessly once more, and began to swear at the doctor. Vulgar, guttural words learned from the depths of cyberspace. The masked figure looked disinterested, and reached underneath the table. From it, he pulled a long piece of clear tubing with a mouthpiece. An announcement to start the Preservation Procedure. Thick purple ooze began to work its way up the tube, filling the room with an unpleasant chemical smell. Without warning, Guycott found a hand shoved inside his mouth mid-rant, and the mouthpiece forced inside. No anaesthetic, no explanation. But such niceties aren't needed when the subject is about to die.

Asphyxiated.

With the test subject now primed and ready for operation – they went to work. Finding a way to kill him without damaging the body too greatly had been a difficult initial hurdle; but now the focus was entirely on priming him for the Restoration Chamber. Most of the difficult work was done by machine; but the subject had to be closely monitored at all times. His hair thinned and eventually vanished; the skin became sallow and thinned; making him look like a sea creature from some deep ocean. Organs were shifted and reinforced. The process was going perfectly. The subject's skeleton and innards had been completely renewed and improved. Inbuilt motors and a furious swarm of nanomachines coursed tirelessly inside his frame. Without skin, it gave him a pale, sickly sheen; unnatural and ominous. A few more days, and they could call the experiment a success.

Reincarnation.

It floated there, unmoving and uncomprehending, as the world moved on around it. The eyes were open, but they saw nothing more than an indeterminate green haze, flecked with tiny silvery particles. But something shifted deep within. The tiniest of electromagnetic pulses. The bones of the right hand twitched; a movement small enough for the scientists not to notice. Then a far more noticeable convulsion of the legs. A foot hit the glass of the Restoration Chamber, and a dull ringing sound echoed around the laboratory. It had woken; and far too soon.

Escape.

The unexpected revival both excited and terrified the masked workers in the laboratory. Their experiment was an unprecedented success; but his new skin wasn't ready yet – this might dash their months of work. The skeletons eyes rolled languidly in their sockets – no eyelids to mask their terrifying bulbous form. They were no longer unseeing. The body began to slowly beat against the glass, adjusting to his circumstance. The pounding became faster, more furious. The scientists quailed away from the thuds and cracks, hiding behind desks, and fleeing for the doors. A siren went off. Green fluid leaked from the weak points in the chamber; splattering to the floor and forming acrid, bubbling puddles.

Freedom.

The glass shattered. As air rushed in to meet the frenzied skeleton, it let out a piercing scream, shaking the hearts of all who heard it. The sensory overload made the figure collapse to the tiled floor, clutching its face, and writhing in agony. And yet, the face – having no muscles or skin – remained perfectly expressionless. While having a tongue and a larynx; the lack of lips and cheeks turned whatever it said into unintelligible moans and wails.

Epiphany.

It wasn't long before the lab was entirely empty, aside from the skeletal abomination. The alarm was still going. No longer screaming, it lay prone on the floor; gathering up his thoughts. Entirely shaken, it was reduced to the rawest instincts; the vague memories of a dream-like past life. The skeleton crawled along the floor to one of the Terminals lining the wall; interface wires dangling from its frame. With a gradually strengthening hand, it reached out to the cables, grabbing one. With a practised patience; a routine performed so often it was part of his being; he plunged it into the back of his neck. It lodged between vertebrae, and the skeleton contorted as his senses were hit with waves of light and sound. His vision faded into the virtual landscape.

Tom Guycott had returned to the Internet.