The White Room

The small room was white. All white. White walls. White furnishings. The screen filling one wall appeared as white snow. The small, built-in bed on the opposite wall was white and very spartan. The woman sitting on the end of the bed was almost completely covered in a skin-tight, sensory suit. The suit was white. Her helmet lay next to her as she contemplated this last level of the climb, the arctic zone.

The woman had gone by many names, in many places. Her current assignment required some intense, virtual training. The expedition was still a few weeks away, and she had been working hard for months to acclimate to the rigorous conditions she would face on Kilimanjaro, where she would eliminate her target, and any witnesses. She was good—very good—at her job. Her client was confident his rival would never see the peak. He would never complete his last of the Seven Summits—the highest peak on each continent.

Her client had installed a very high-end, virtual, sensory input system in a small, studio apartment in this otherwise unassuming tenement building for her use and training. The computer system had its own remote internet connection and uninterruptible power supply. Vital, if relying on the system for oxygen and sustenance during intense training. A consumer version would be rolled out during the next few years, and make her client very, very wealthy, he had said.

Funny, he was already extremely wealthy, she knew—her own fee was exorbitant. This system was the Bugatti in the virtual/sensory input product family. The installation of this prototype in this place—slowly, quietly—must have cost a pretty penny all by itself. Only her client and a very few top technicians and programmers knew; it had to be off-site, kept off the books. She had insisted on that, and her client had readily agreed. She had worked for him before. He was discreet and generous.

She had spent weeks training at each climate level she would encounter on Kilimanjaro, the largest, freestanding mountain in the world. The only one of the Seven Summits her client’s competitor had not conquered. It had three volcanic cones, one dormant - the other two extinct. Pity, he would not see the peak and complete the summits. She almost felt sorry for him.

During her first few weeks she hiked every day below the jungle in the lowest climate region. A warm, cultivated area with fertile, volcanic soil. The suit provided the correct humidity and oxygen levels for this agricultural zone. With her helmet on, her environment was the environment on Kilimanjaro.

The programming was incredibly accurate. The wall screen showed her the trails, and projected into the room almost like she was in a hologram suite in a science fiction fantasy. She felt the thickness of the air and the heat of the region, so close to the equator. Hermetically sealed with her helmet on, the suit brought the virtual/sensory experience to the full extent of human engineering. The system provided her with the complete sensory experience, all input coming from the system, through the suit, to her.

The room had been soundproofed. The absence of all color and things in the small, white room was intentional. She ate her rations on the mountain—the suit fed her intravenously. She drank from her canteen on the mountain, the suit hydrated her directly. Her wastes carried away, while she went through the motions on the mountain, in the suit—in the small, white room. The electrical impulses to her muscles, in the suit, exercised them in every way a real hike would. The artificial environment within the suit acclimated her to each climate zone as she made her way up Kilimanjaro.

She might as well be on the mountain. The program was so real, she forgot she was in the small, white, studio apartment some days. She slept on the ground in camp, and along the trail. She ate the food and drink that would be available during the actual expedition. When it got dark on the mountain, it got dark in the room. She lived there—on the mountain—not here, in this small white room.

There were several established routes up the mountain, the two most popular coming from the south. She had chosen a newer, more remote route starting from the west—the Lemosho Route. She had researched her target for months before starting her training. She was confident that this is the route he would take on his final Summit. It was quieter, with fewer climbers, and the trail was longer with shorter elevation gains. This would be a slower, more natural acclimatization experience—and he could savor the moment. She knew him. She knew this would be the route he would want. His last Summit. There would be ample time to adjust to each new, higher altitude on the sixty mile trek to the top. The higher she went, the less oxygen there was, the longer it would take to adapt. Slow and steady, camping each night all the way up. Disregarding a gradual approach to the thinning oxygen could result in Altitude Mountain Sickness - which she must avoid if she was to climb the real mountain, eliminate her target—her client’s competition—and make her way back down the mountain and out of Tanzania. She would virtually climb this mountain as many times as she could before the real expedition to Africa began—she had to be at her best—no, she had to be the best climber on the mountain. No room for error. This is how she had conducted her entire career. Mistakes ended careers in her profession, ended lives.

The climate zones on the mountain had become her game levels. Completing each zone a milestone before moving up to the next. Above base camp was the forest zone, a dense rainforest where she might see leopard and antelope—and the monkeys. The monkeys. Her least favorite part of this zone, moving through the trees overhead—screaming their warnings. She hated monkeys.

More rain, more humidity - she completed this rainforest level during a final hike from the Lemosho Gate to the base camp at about 9,000 feet. How many times had she done this hike? She had lost count. Her client would let her know before the real hike began. Mti Mkubwa Base Camp marked the true beginning of this mountain route. She would supper at the mess tent, hot stew, coarse bread, and something warm to drink. She would sleep in a proper tent—she might even miss the sounds of monkeys overhead.

The next zone was heather and moorland, from about 9,000 to 13,000 feet of elevation. Hiking slowly and steadily through this zone was crucial. The air was thinner, colder, and drier above the forest. No monkeys, she might see a type of antelope now and again. She reached a natural plateau where the cone of one of the extinct volcanoes had been filled with lava from the last eruption of the now dormant Kibo, over 300,000 years ago. She had done her homework before she had even accepted this job. The Shira Plateau was covered in wild grasses and flowering plants—including one in the sunflower family. The woman hiked over dark, volcanic rock and boulders—over the grassy areas and across streams under the watchful eye of Kibo looming in the distance.

Reaching the intersection of the Lemosho Route and the Northern Circuit she climbed and descended along the circuit just above 14,000 feet. She was flirting with the alpine desert zone here. An arid zone with desert vegetation—less oxygen, less moisture—colder. She might see the occasional African wild dog here. Reaching the New Pofu Camp meant quality rest, a hot meal, and dramatic views into the wild lands of Kenya to the north.

From New Pofu to the Upper 3rd Caves camp the alpine desert zone was desolate and gray. She might see stunted shrubs and tufts of grasses on the trail to the next camp. Here, she would continue ascending and descending along the foot of the other extinct volcano, past a lake and the Saddle Plateau working her way towards Kibo with its permanent glaciers and year-round snow. She chose a lower route around the eastern side of the mountain to Kikelawa Camp and the Kikelawa Caves—she felt confident her target would do the same. More time to acclimate—more time to savor the experience, the moment, his Seventh Summit. Here she might see white-necked ravens above the camp, hoping for a handout—a crust of coarse bread uneaten.

Above 16,000 feet was the final level—the arctic zone. The conditions were cold and barren on the mountain. Glaciers, ice fields, and rock slides dominated this part of the climb. Above the Barranco Wall to the next camp—the top of Kibo in sight. Summiting in daylight was the best course. Past the Lava Tower she would want to reach Crater Camp first—from there Uhuru Peak was only about 500 more feet up. Trapping her target between the camp and the peak had always been her plan. Reach the peak, scouting the way—wend her way back down to meet her target and anyone with him—stage the unfortunate accident: a fall, a slide, a fatal plunge to an icy final resting place—they might not be found for weeks. Time enough to reach the peak once more and make her way down another route and off to her next life. “Uhuru” in Swahili meant “freedom.” Freedom for her—her biggest payday yet—maybe enough to be her last. Freedom from his biggest competition for her client. His competitor was the visionary of his own company—which would tank, no doubt, with his disappearance. Her client’s company could once more dominate the virtual/sensory market. Some of the advancements employed in this prototype may have been stolen from the target’s own designs. It would be easier to roll them out in the consumer model without her client’s competitor around.

She looked up towards the peak and started to climb—the last few thousand feet of arctic zone. How many times had she summited? How many more? Visibility was poor. Her body felt light. Climbing had become her natural state. She was almost giddy. Hours had gone by and the path before her looked the same—ice-covered ground, cold dry air, and a white cloud-filled sky. She could hardly tell where one ended and the next started—the white room. This was always the most challenging part of the climb—the air at its thinnest, driest, coldest. The compass readout in her helmet showed her direction and speed, and she sensed the upward climb with each step. She continued to climb.

Outside the apartment building it was raining in buckets. Thunder cracked, and lightning flashed showing the technician arrive at a little used door in back—just for an instant. Remote access to her internet connection and uninterruptible power supply—known only to a very few, trusted technicians and programmers. Connections were reconfigured, warnings and safety features were disconnected. Everything wiped down. The world was full of competent professionals. Some very, very good.

As she climbed her readout flickered for just an instant. She was cold and tired. Her air was very thin here. She barely noticed the flicker. It did not register. Had she already passed Crater Camp? Reached the summit? Started back to intercept him? Her head felt a bit wooly—but it always got tough here. She kept climbing. It got colder in her suit—so cold she started to feel warm at some point. Her lungs were no longer receiving oxygen from the suit. She thought she might sleep for a bit. She dreamed she was near the peak now. She kept climbing.

A thousand miles away her client enjoyed a very convenient heart attack, while bicycling around his own neighborhood—in his own prototype, in his own study. He might have put on a few more pounds lately, enjoyed an extra Scotch each evening—while he planned his domination of the virtual/sensory input product lines—worldwide. So many markets. So many niches. So many plans. There had been just a flicker in the onscreen output of the visor which he had discounted, just before he died. This was just one of two, highly-experimental prototypes, after all.

Always reset your password.

A few weeks later a man appeared in the hallway heading towards her apartment. He was accompanied by the landlord, who had not received the last rent check for the studio. The landlord reported that his tenant had not been seen in several months. No mail. No deliveries. A health and safety check—not completely uncommon in this area. Halfway down the hallway the health officer noted an open door to another apartment. In the door stood a toddler in her diaper holding a small blanket—a “binkie” he might’ve called it. Some of the stains on the blanket looked fresher than others. The baby sucked at her thumb, and held the blanket to her head. As he passed arms came out from behind the door and yanked the child into the apartment, the door closing quickly.

He knew immediately what he had to do when the landlord opened the door. A very faint smell, the stale air—but the presence of death had a familiar feeling—a voice. As he stood in the doorway to her studio apartment he was already calling the Fatality Unit. After a quick survey of the small, white room he also called a tech unit—the body in an odd space suit of some kind—the eyes of the woman closed, as if she was sleeping, behind the visor of the helmet—her eyelashes coated with frost—the sophisticated-looking connections between the suit and the structure. The screen filling one wall looked like a wall of white snow—the faintest flicker towards the top, right corner he thought, for a moment. As incongruous a setting in this unassuming downtown apartment building as he could imagine. It looked like a clean room he had seen in a movie once, where they made computer chips. This room must be the new IBMac 9000 or some such he thought as he chuckled to himself—at his little joke.

The health officer sent the landlord on his way, while he stayed awaiting the arrival of the units he had summoned. This would be an extensive investigation. He hoped he would not be late for dinner, again. He might never hear the end of it. He stared at the white screen on one wall, from the doorway, not looking at the woman in her space suit.

Over 7,000 miles away, in north-eastern Tanzania, her target stood at the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro—the largest freestanding mountain in the world. With its three volcanic cones: Kibo (dormant), Mawenzi and Shira (both extinct), the mountain stands at 19,341 feet above sea level and is one of the Seven Summits—the highest peak on each continent. It would be his seventh and he had brought along a very few, trusted associates to enjoy the trip—to savor the moment. A very few top technicians and programmers in his thriving company, now at the forefront of the virtual/sensory input product lines—worldwide. This was his moment. He had lived to see his vision fulfilled. He would enjoy this last, real-world adventure. He started climbing.