1. The tower

Hello, Michael.

His eyes swept curiously across the room, searching for the source of the voice. Underneath that brown hair, the round receptors were unsuccessful. He briefly had a flash. Sirens. Bright blue and yellow lights. Everything was a rush. There was no saving them. Back again in this white walled room he glanced around for any sign that someone might come to help him.

The tv was all talking heads. Channel to channel to channel to channel. Just a bunch of blathering nuts speaking someone’s mind, but not their own. A larger entity holding everything together. Some kind of big brother. A voice on one side, a voice on the other. Stereoscopic sound waves in a dystopia of contradictions.

Michael looked down at his toes, wiggled them. They were there. At least they were there. Couldn’t really turn his head, but craned as best he could toward the window. Blue outside, or was it green? How could he tell anymore. I think it was green.

The sun was behind him, behind his room, casting a shadow. The room overlooked the wild terrain below. Fifty stories up, he peered down into the cavernous world that surrounded him. a blight on an otherwise uninterrupted nature, the building shot up a towering hundred-fifty stories. Sheltered by no other, cradled in no nest, a singular spire, symbol of  progress.  Achievement is betterment, he repeated to himself.

Within a few days he was feeling like himself again. Each morning he’d wake to a mysterious meal. Mysterious not so much because of what it was, toast, jam, eggs, bacon, juice.  Mysterious because it was placed there before he woke. Someone beyond the locked door had entered when Michael was far gone into his dreams. Nonetheless, he ate.

Slowly he turned toward the window, removed the bedding from atop him and sat upright on the edge of his bed. his naked legs hardly touched the cold linoleum. Spread out before him, a picturesque panorama. Men on the television reported naval battles between some world power and another. He couldn’t help hating the beauty before him.

The phone rang. He didn’t know there was a phone, but it was ringing. Who was it, his mother, sister? Could it be someone else? He found it in the top drawer of the table beside him. Sleek, compact, cellular. No wires, nothing. A clear screen flashing on off on off, unknown caller it declared in red.

Hello?

Hello, Michael.

Hello.

How are you feeling, Michael?

Better.

Do you remember what happened to you?

Yes.

He had remembered, but it had taken some time. Most of it had come back.

Are you ready to begin?

Yes.

Good. Your clothes are hanging in the closet by the door. Someone will be in shortly.

A blue wardrobe stood in the corner of the room. He had taken account of it earlier, but hadn’t ventured a peek inside. On a single hanger was a blue dress, and on it’s sleeve was pinned a blonde head of hear. He removed his bedclothes, and maneuvered easily into the dress. A comfortable fit. The fabric fell to his knees. He thought of the spring morning he woke to.

He adjusted the wig to hide his own hair. He hadn’t shaved in days and his stubble had become an overgrown pasture. Using the mirror and a spare razor, he shaved away the memory of the last couple days, only to reveal a healing scar, marking the side of his chin. Small, but noticeable.

Wiping his feet off, he slipped into a pair of large orange sandals, slumped into a chair and crossed his legs. A knock at the door announced the arrival of two orderlies. One began stripping the bed linens. The other handed Michael a small plastic bag full of personal items, including a small zip-up leather binder.

They left the room together. In the long tunnel of the hall, Michael felt a whiff of disorientation. While he remembered why he had been in the room, he hadn’t remembered how he got there.

Mr. Tennesey, You look well. We hope everything was to your satisfaction. Your escort is waiting.

Michael moved a strand of long blonde hair out of his face and smiled at the orderly. The two walked in silence as they approached and descended an escalator into a vast hall of palms and fountains. men with hand drawn signs stood near the large glass entrance onto a mezzanine station, which jutted out like a shelf into the airspace around the building. Dressed in long black coats and matching buckle caps. Their signs read like a census. Griffith, Burns, Calder, Meldech, Thomas, Toffey, Tennesey. He exchanged polite goodbyes with the orderly and proceeded to the hands holding up his name.

Mr Tennesey, Good Morning. This way please.

The man didn’t flinch as he turned and led Michael out the door into the blinding heat. Fortunately, Michael thought, I dressed for the weather. Outside they crossed an asphalt walkway into a garden style loggia. He and the suit approached a long track stretching off into the distance. Two slender steel beams curved through the space before them. Within a few moments of making some adjustments on a screen, a modest clear sphere rolled to a silent stop before him.

Opening onto itself, the inside revealed a half circle of seats suspended magnetically within the casing of the module.

A good afternoon, the man in the black hat wished Michael, as the casing slid shut. Michael nodded back to the man as the module’s air compression was activated. A bodiless voice sounded.

Good Morning, Michael.

Hi, TAG. Take me home, please.

As quickly as the sphere appeared, it disappeared, gliding down the inclined track from platform 45. Down down away from the tower and into the treetops below.