Serafina and the Virtual Man - By Marie Treanor Page 0,30

fingers were long, his nails cut short but not professionally manicured. A capable, efficient hand that she shouldn’t be able to touch.

Slowly, she set down the laptop on the nearest desk and lifted her hand to touch his fingers. They curled around hers, warm and solid, and she gasped and clung to them for support.

“You’d better not be taking the piss out of me,” she got out, and his eyes narrowed in sudden laughter, the skin crinkling around the corners. He had a good, silent laugh, an excellent match for the mere smile she’d glimpsed before.

“It’s just technology,” he said, as if he knew exactly how to soothe her. “Virtual reality. No headset, no goggles, no gloves. When you touch the sensor just past that first computer, it sets off the machine over there”—he pointed toward the dental drill-shaped things above the two benches—”which scans your brain and the rest of you and plugs you in so that others in the game can see you, and you feel with your whole body.”

“Fuck,” Jilly said in wonder, gazing from the machine back to him and their joined hands. “But it’s real. You feel real. You look real.”

“So do you.” His finger moved on the skin between her thumb and forefinger, sending tiny thrills down her nerves. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. She turned his hand, pushing her fingers against his to open them, which he did at once, and she could study the lines of his palm and trace them with one finger.

His breath caught, and he curled his fingers back around hers. “You’re tickling.”

“Sorry.” She pulled free, only half as embarrassed as she should have been. “This is just so incredible. This is your new system? No wonder Ewan’s keeping it under wraps. It’s not just revolutionary, it’s mind-blowing. How’d you do it? How can it get so far into your brain without even wires?”

“A combination of very new techniques from both neurosurgery and VR.”

Jilly wandered across to the benches, touching the unknown equipment with reverence. “You’re a neurosurgeon too? Somehow the papers missed that.”

“Not me. We have a friend, a doctor, who helps with that side of things. Gives me what I need and even tests it for safety.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “And he passed it, right?”

“Right.”

She frowned. “It’s clever,” she allowed. “Fucking clever. But I don’t get this room. Why put such fabulous technology in such a shite virtual environment?”

He grinned. “The environment’s still real. We haven’t programmed it to anything else yet. Where would you like to go?”

She felt her eyes widen. “Where have you got?” she asked breathlessly.

“Hmm, prohibition-era Chicago? We can go gangster shooting and take on the mob. Or 1940s occupied Paris. Or there’s a half-finished futuristic with some magnificent aliens.” He considered her, leaning his head to one side. “I can see you in Paris, all chic and secretive.”

For some reason, a flush rose through her body to her face. She hoped her makeup hid it. He only quirked his expressive lips and turned to the computer he’d just left. His fingers flew across the keys.

“The computers,” she said, frowning. “Real or virtual?”

“Real. Well, both, I suppose, since our virtual forms can operate them.” He glanced up at her over his shoulder. “One thing you have to bear in mind. The game is an environment. A blank canvas with only the most basic of plots. You control the events by your thoughts and desires, and when you want to leave, you do. But that’s the tricky part. You have to really want to leave not just the scene you’re in but the entire game, otherwise it doesn’t work. That bit takes practice, so you’d better just tell me. Which means you’ll have to stay with me at all times. There should be a safety cutout on a time mechanism, plus a distress sensor, but they weren’t properly operational when I made this stuff, and I don’t know how far along Dale’s got with it.”

“Not very, if you’ve been here for two days,” she observed and was instantly sorry when his expression clouded. His eyelids swept down, and he turned back to the computer.

He had long, dark eyelashes that looked oddly appealing against his pale skin. “That’s different. I’ve got nowhere else to go. OK, Paris, 1942. Ready?”

“What do I do?” she asked, suddenly panicking.

“Nothing.” He straightened and came toward her. “Take my hand.”

She did, clinging to it like a lifeline as the world changed