.:ELECTRIC VELOCIPEDE:. Another Day by Mark Rich

In this simulation of his life Frank drove down Hopkins Road and Barrington Street past the old folks’ home and jammed the heel of his hand into the horn; they hated that. A dog barked and ran toward the street. Laughing, Frank jerked the wheel to the left to try hitting the little bastard. Nearly did. The thing squealed—he could hear it as he regained his lane; but he couldn’t tell if he had succeeded. As usual Frank saw no sign of Boris. Boris stayed well in the background. Times like this, though, he knew exactly where Boris was. Boris was everywhere.

Boris had very handily constructed this scene directly from memory. The old folks, the dog, the mail-lady to whom he gave a jeer and the finger as he ripped past: none of them existed, or if they did, then they were living through simulations of their own. None of it mattered, anyway. None of it. That was the good part about Boris. Frank whistled to himself, cranked the radio, and spat out the window when he saw a shiny new car.

Frank slammed the car door and kicked the newspaper off the sidewalk leading to his house. From his pants pockets he pulled house keys. Hardly needed them, however. Colleen, his wife of fifteen years and a kazillion simulations, opened the door first; she must have come home early from her job, in this particular rendition. She smiled broadly, meeting him at the door. She looked lovely, with dreamy eyes and chiffon hair, looking relaxed in a loose workshirt and jeans. He thought of cheesecakes in bakery windows—all molded foam and paint—and smiled woodenly at her. Hi, Boris, he thought.

“You’re back,” she said. “A little early, in fact. Great!”

“Yeah, great. Ha.” Frank said, pushing past her. He wondered what devious plans Boris had for him today. “Where are they?”

“Where are who? What’s the matter, Frank? Bad day?” She sounded hurt.

Frank felt a momentary pang, acting so damned rude to her; he should have been more affectionate, or at least have put up a show, just not to hurt—

But hell! Who cared if he hurt a piece of walking nothingness, an automated set-up of mental plastic, a simulation of all he held most dear? Hurt the bugger! The hell with Boris!

“Come on, Colleen, where are they? The visitors, you know?” he said. “My torturers—where are they? Like those boring Robinsons, or your friend Elizabeth with her whining nasal voice? Or the kids? Are the kids here? I suppose the kids will be enough torture.”

“It’s too early, Frank. You know that. They’re at school.”

Frank laughed and went to the kitchen. “Yeah, like that makes any difference.” The thing Frank loved about psychological torture like this: he could gorge like crazy. Food tasted good again. Beer tasted great. He could even get wasted. He resolved to work on that part of it pronto. Boris, you mother, sometimes I think you’re almost an all-right sonofabitch.

“Get that,” Frank said, opening the fridge door. He grabbed a beer, aware of Colleen standing in the door the kitchen, regarding him oddly before turning away.

She answered quietly and listened. Frank looked off into the distance, laughing inside himself at this futile attempt. Telephone torture. Boris would do anything. So long as it involved no imagination he would try anything.

“Frank, it’s your boss,” she said. “He’s wondering where you went to.”

“Tell him I’m in goddamn hell. That’s where I goddamn am.”

“Frank! What’s the matter?”

“Give me that.” Frank grabbed the phone and laughed into the receiver. “That’s supposed to be you, oh my big boss Mr. Jimmy Gurney, isn’t it? Ho ho! What a loser you are, you schmuck! Go eat rabbit pellets, fud!” Frank tossed it back. He whooped.

“Frank!” Catching the receiver she talked hurriedly into it. “Mr. Gurney, don’t mind Frank. He’s not himself today. Please. Please. You know it’s been hard—so hard. Please! Give him another chance. I know you’ve already done so much—yes, yes. Thank you, Mr. Gurney. Thank you. Frank thanks you too even if he doesn’t know it.”

Frank whooped again, listening to her, and chugged the beer. He opened another, took three more in hand along with a bag of chips and headed for the living room. Television. He would watch some goddamn television. Frank loved seeing how accurately Boris reconstructed television shows inside Frank’s head: always very much like the original, with just enough differences to make it a new experience each time. Clever, that Boris.

The third beer was in the process of bringing him a sensation of well-being when Boris’s minions, dressed in white, filed into the living room. He managed to pour the rest of the can over the television set before they dragged him away. His wife ran to unplug the machine and then gazed at him from the door with a helpless and anxious face. Frank grinned. She looked so good. Boris was such a damned virtuoso about these things.

“You’ll be back, Colleen,” he said. “You’ll be back.” The illusion of her would return to torture him again and again.

One of the medics shook his head. “Going to give us stories about that alien thing named Boris again, huh, Frank?”

A connection broke in his head. It felt as though one moment a strand of spider-silk held him up where the air was thinner and he thought the bizarre reality he saw was utterly true—and in the next it snapped, plunging him back into normal air, and into this world. “Oh, shit,” he said, breathing out and feeling the hollowness flush from him. It terrified him, awakening like this. “Oh god, have I done it again? I keep going into these—these—I don’t know, what are they? These fugues, these delusions—oh, shit, shit, shit!”

“Come on. Tell the doctor all about it.”

“I’m fine, now, really!”

“We’ll let the doctor decide.”

A week later, while he was driving home, Boris decided the hell with waiting and took over Frank’s body and swept away the dust and cobwebs of whatever had been there before: a tidy home is a happy home, as he well knew from his studies. Boris settled in and drove comfortably, making sure to go past the retirement home and keeping an eye out for dogs and pedestrians, nearly managing to cream one of the latter, which made him shriek with joy while the woman fled in terror. Boris had studied the tapes until his eyes popped from his head: he had it down cold. He knew human behavior parfaitement. He knew Frank to a T. He would make a perfect goddamn Frank. No one would know the difference, not Colleen, not Doctor Zifter, not Mr. Gurney, no one. He worked his butt off arranging this: because this meant freedom. At last! He had been serving a life sentence on his home world and signed up for experiments to beat boredom; then had sneaked time on the mind-transfer operation—used it to study this loser Frank—and presto! Here on Earth! Yo! White walls, barred windows: bye-bye!

Colleen greeted him at the door with a smile. She had come home early, again, to see how he was. Boris knew this like he knew everything about Frank and Colleen. He was so goddamn good.

“Hi, darling,” she said. “Have a good day at work?” She smiled tentatively.

“Good day? Good? Ha!” he said, pushing past her. He went directly for the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. Expertly he popped the top and sucked back the contents. He whooped and chucked the can in the sink. It made him want to pee but he suspected that was normal; he thought he would drink another to make sure.

Colleen watched him with alarm, then backed away. She reached backwards for the telephone, punched a number and tapped her fingers anxiously while awaiting an answer.

Boris leaned against the fridge with his second beer and acted natural, which involved ignoring Colleen and looking away as if he could give a hoot. Chips. He needed chips. Chips and TV. TV was a goddamn good idea.

When the medics came in their white coats, he smiled and laughed. It was the day of the goddamn alien invasion from outer space and he was the sum total of the goddamn invasion and he was free and to them it was just another day. Just another goddamn day.