Into the Dark

Richard Newby put the razor back down on the wash stand. There didn’t seem much point in shaving, really. It wouldn’t matter anymore. Not where he was going.

He sidled out of the ensuite, taking care not to disturb Mary. He paused and looked down at her as he passed the bed. They’d been married for fifty-four years; she’d been his companion, his soul mate. Perhaps he should tell her what he was about to do? He shook his head. He’d been through this, agonised over the decision. Best he kept it to himself.

Richard moved on, closed the bedroom door softly behind him and went into his study. He spent most of his time here, sitting in front of his computer, surfing the net or fiddling. Mary told him he should walk or play golf, and she was probably right. But he’d been in IT all his life, and the doctors told you to keep your brain active, didn’t they? Find something you love and do it. That’s what he’d done

He eased himself into his chair and turned the machine on, a slight smile playing around his mouth as the operating system loaded. He licked his lips, not sure himself if he was nervous or eager. One way or another his life would never be the same again.

He loaded the song and listened one more time. It had been his inspiration, gentle and lilting. He smiled. Heaven and Hell displaying a ‘no vacancy’ sign.

The helmet was on a stand next to him, already plugged in. Richard slipped it over his head and pulled the visor down over his eyes. It fitted exactly, which was understandable. That was how he’d built it.

"Into the Dark," he said.

 ***

 Mary came in an hour later with his cup of tea and two biscuits.

"Here’s your tea, dear," she said, putting the cup on the desk. "Are you going to take that thing off your head?" She shook his shoulder.

His body slumped sideways in the chair, the left arm dangling almost to the floor, the right on his lap.

Mary’s hands flew to her face. "Richard?"

She lifted his right hand, her fingers slipping around his wrist to feel for a pulse.

"Mary? Mary, over here."

Mary frowned and peered at the helmet. "Where?"

"The computer, hunbun. Behind you."

Mary peered at the screen, her expression wary. "Is this a joke?" she whispered. "Because it isn’t funny."

"No, it’s me," said Richard, pointing at his chest. "That thing there," he, pointed at the body in the chair, "that’s just a hulk. I’m not there anymore."

Mary gasped, her fingers flying to her mouth. "You’re dead?"

"It depends what you mean, hunbun. The body out there doesn’t work anymore because the operating system has turned off. But I’m fine here, in the cyber world."

Her eyes widened. "You’re in the computer?"

"You might say that. Sort of. See that helmet on my—it’s—head? I worked out a way to transfer myself—my thoughts, my memories, my mind—into data sets. I’ve loaded all of that into this." His hands swept down his sides to indicate himself, the being she could see on the screen. "What do you think?"

He was young again, of course. But better looking, fitter, more athletic, like one of those lifesavers at the beach. No need for the glasses he’d worn all his life. And he’d given himself a nose job and wavy, dark brown hair. And of course the tumour, that malignant thing in his chest, sapping his strength, turning his lungs to mash, that was gone, too.