Terence Blacker

The Transfer

The computer was switched on…

...and I stood in front of the blue screen, as if already I was aware that something weird and momentous was about to happen.
  Will-power. The ability to make things happen with the strength of my own need. What did City need in order to stay up? I reached for a rack of computer games that lay on a nearby shelf. I flicked through the disks until I found what I wanted. What do City need? I slipped one of my favourite games into the computer. TargetMan.
  I had no idea what would happen if I brought together Mum’s research with the TargetMan computer game, but someone had to save City. Someone had to risk it all.
  It’s a penalty and Peterson’s going to take it! At this stage of the game, it’s all about character and this brilliant young player has elected to step up and risk all on behalf of his team.
  I sat in the chair in front of the computer, then, taking a deep breath, I clicked on to TargetMan.
  The ball’s on the spot, Peterson turns. The stadium has fallen silent. He starts his run-up…
  I accessed the superhero I had been working on – a striker with the skills of Maradona, the power of Pele, the vision of Bobby Charlton, the goal instinct of Linekar. I had called him Lazlo. He stood in the centre of the screen, a small computer graphic bouncing a tiny white football on his right foot.
  My heart thumping, I reached for Mum’s electronic headband. I slipped it carefully over my head and tightened the strap, until I felt the electrodes cool against my scalp.
  I gazed at the screen and thought of City. There was a brief flash on the screen as if a power surge was working through the system.
  ‘Back of the net,’ I whispered.
  I concentrated on Lazlo.
  Lazlo and the City.
  The yellow of his strap turned to the red and white squares of City.
  ‘Welcome to City Stadium, Mr Lazlo,’ I whispered.
  Without my even having another thought, a panel had appeared on the monitor. It read:
 
  PLAYER PROFILE:
  POSITION?

  I thought, Striker. The screen asked:

  TALENT RATING OUT OF TEN:
  BALL SKILLS?

  Ten.

  SPEED?

  Ten.

  GOAL-SCORING ABILITY?

  Ten. This was easy.

  POSITIONAL SENSE?

  Ten.

  PHYSICAL STRENGTH?

  Again, I thought, Ten, but this time a message appeared on the screen: LAZLO ONLY HAS TEN TALENT POINTS REMAINING.

  I shrugged. Five.

  HEIGHT?

  Five.

  BLINK TO CONFIRM PLAYER PROFILE.

  I blinked.
  No longer nervous or afraid, I felt at one with the computer. Lazlo was a City player, the dream striker that would save them from relegation. At another time, I might have worried about how a game could become a reality, how a tiny computer figure could save a real team, but for some reason, I had no doubt. Will power would find a way.
  I was wondering what to do next when something odd happened. The figure on the monitor seemed to change. He grew larger, more lifelike. He began to do stretching exercises, as if he were warming up for a game.
  Another panel appeared. PLAYER MISSION?
  I hesitated. As if it understood my confusion, the computer asked, WHAT MISSION DO YOU WISH LAZLO TO ACHIEVE?
  I felt tired now, and a strange fuzzy headache seemed to fill my skull, but I gathered what strength there was left in my brain. Save the City.
  VIRTUAL REALITY?
  ‘No,’ I said out loud. Real reality.
  The monitor changed again. Lazlo had moved closer, so that I could only see his face and shoulders as he stared out at me from the screen. He had a thin face, like me, slightly sticking out ears, a bit like me, his hair was dark and untidy, a bit like mine. I noticed that he had a small scar in his left eyebrow, a bit like mine. In fact, exactly like mine.
  Uh-oh.
  I moved to the left. Lazlo moved too. I reached out my hand. He seemed to reach out for me.
  My mouth was dry. I was having difficulty breathing. I swallowed, licked my lips. So did Lazlo.
  I was staring at a grown-up version of myself.
  What’s happening?
  A message appeared across the bottom of the screen.

  AFFIX THE STUD
  WHEN IT MAKES CONTACT, YOU ARE LAZLO

  I’m Lazlo?
  I was frightened now, breathing heavily. My mum had warned me never to touch the headset. I had always thought she was afraid of my messing up her programme. Now, for the first time, I realized that I was meddling with something beyond my control.
  I took off the electronic hairnet. As soon as the electrodes lost contact with my skin, which was now slick with sweat, the screen returned to normal TargetMan mode, with a tiny Lazlo bouncing his little computer ball again.
  As I laid it on the table, something fell from the headband on to the wooden floor. I closed my eyes in horror – Mum’s precious hairnet was coming apart in my hands. I was dead.
  Dreading what I would see, I opened my eyes again. There, still spinning slowly on the floor, was a bright red plastic control button. I reached down and picked  it up carefully. I looked more closely.
  It wasn’t a control button at all…

The Transfer © Terence Blacker, 2007.  Published by Macmillan.