A User's Guide to Make-Believe

by Jane Alexander

  ‘Some time next week, perhaps,’ Morgan was saying.

  Cassie gave her most ingratiating smile. Trust Me. ‘I wonder – would you mind if I walked with you, and asked just a couple of questions …?’

  Morgan picked up her briefcase, slung the strap over her shoulder. ‘By all means,’ she said. Outside her office, she locked the door and led the way straight to the lift.

  ‘I’m not sure if you know,’ Cassie said as they waited, ‘I’ve moved on from Imagen, some time ago.’

  Did Morgan’s expression soften, just a little? She couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I’m actually based at the university now, and I’m involved in some psychological research.’

  The glass doors opened, and Morgan ushered her in.

  ‘We’re studying some early users of the Make-Believe environment, and looking at the more subtle aspects of how their virtual experiences affect their real life perceptions.’

  The atrium slid past. Each level was painted a different colour. Cerise. Sage. Blue-grey. Lilac. Orange. Yellow.

  ‘Sounds interesting, very interesting.’ Morgan spoke as if she’d been presented with a dish of slugs, politely telling the waiter how delicious it looked. ‘You say, the more subtle aspects?’

  ‘Yes – so we’re not duplicating the extensive safety testing that’s already, obviously, been carried out by your colleagues. Or questioning that, in any way. We’re actually focusing on the potential for Make-Believe to enrich people’s real lives. Unexpected benefits. Qualitative research, rather than quantitative, at this stage.’

  They stepped out of the lift. ‘And I might be able to help in some way?’

  ‘It’s just really … well, it’s a bit delicate, but – one of the difficulties we’re encountering is to do with the, uh, solidity of the data. The tendency of a number of participants to indulge in fantasy, and to experience difficulty in distinguishing this from reality.’ She walked with Morgan across the foyer, through the exit gate. ‘Some of the effects that participants are reporting are – let’s say they’re highly unlikely. So there’s a question about the reliability of these reports. And it occurred to me that it would be helpful if we could rule out any aspects of these supposed experiences that are simply not possible. Not technologically, biologically possible.’

  They were outside now. Morgan stopped walking. Turned to face her. In the daylight she looked older than she had indoors: unslept, and furrowed. ‘And can you be specific about the possibilities you’d like to exclude?’

  Cassie was ready with her test question, her calibration. ‘OK, so one is the suggestion that users might be able to exceed their daily allocation of 120 minutes. Now I know of course there are all sorts of factors here to do with perceptions of time – it’s such a fascinating area – and all I wanted to do was just rule out that possibility that a user might actually spend more than two hours a day, real time, in Make-Believe.’ She felt herself flush as she added a tacit acknowledgement of what she herself was supposed to have done. ‘That’s without any kind of alteration of account privileges.’

  If Morgan lied, she would know; and she’d know, then, how she lied – what she did with her eyes, her mouth, her hands. She wasn’t expecting the truth.

  Morgan answered easily. ‘Ah. Now you see, we couldn’t categorically rule out that possibility.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’

  ‘I’m going this way, do you mind if we walk?’ Morgan pointed towards the Newman building and started across the square, leaving Cassie to scurry after her. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that there have been a very few isolated instances of bioware being modified.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘As I say, a very few instances. And we’ve improved the safeguards against this happening, we’re improving them all the time – really it’s a matter for the computer science team at Imagen. An encryption issue.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And so, this modification—’

  ‘Would allow users to remain in Make-Believe for as long as they choose. Theoretically, an unlimited period of time. Although there are always limits. Physical limits.’

  Physical limits. You needed the toilet. You realised you were hollow with hunger. You fell asleep, exhausted, crossed the border between Make-Believe and dreams and woke back in the real world cold and stiff, lying wet in the empty bathtub – the flat deserted – the front door open—‘If that’s everything …?’ Morgan was making a show of checking her watch.

  ‘Uh, yes’ – Cassie forced herself to focus – ‘just one more question, if that’s OK … One or two of the participants have reported being able to share their virtual experiences. I mean, not telling other people what they Make-Believed, after the event, but actually collaborating on an experience, in real time – like we’re collaborating now, on this conversation.’

  For the briefest fraction of a second, a shadow flickered across Morgan’s face. Then she shook her head emphatically. ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Good. Well – good. Categorically, you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes.’ They had reached the Newman building, were standing face to face; Morgan held her eyes, with a gaze so direct it felt like a challenge. ‘You must know that, Cassandra. With your background. If you spoke to your former colleagues at Imagen, they would tell you the same.’

  ‘No, of course. Just, for the study, we need to be absolutely sure that it’s not possible. And so … a participant who claims they’ve had an experience that was in some way controlled or – or simply shared with another party—’

  ‘Would be delusional, I’d suggest. Of course, if the user is delusional,’ she said, ‘their subscription should be terminated.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Already has been, in this case. And you’re right, in fact; this participant does have a history of mental health problems, quite severe problems as I understand – I don’t know how he ever passed the medical history check. But it’s a ridiculous idea, of course. To think he could somehow connect to another individual, another Make-Believe user …’ She laughed, shook her head. ‘God, if that were possible I’m sure Imagen would already be making a fortune out of it!’

  Once more, Morgan stared straight at her. ‘It hardly sounds plausible, does it, spontaneous connections within Make-Believe. As you say, a ridiculous idea. Now, if that’s all …?’

  Cassie blinked. Smiled. ‘Thank you so much, that’s been incredibly useful.’

  ‘Glad I could help.’ The professor looked looser suddenly, but still guarded. Like she’d come through a job interview with flying colours, and all that remained was to make a graceful exit.

  ‘Sorry again for the interruption, I should have made an appointment, I know. If there’s anything else that comes up – would it be OK for me to email you? Or give you a call?’

  ‘Fine. Of course. Email is generally best.’ She reached for the inside pocket of her jacket, handed over a card.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cassie patted her satchel. ‘I’ve run out – but I’ll email my details. Just in case you want to contact me. Well …’

  ‘You might take a look at the new Make-Believe exhibit, if you haven’t seen it?’

  ‘The …?’

  ‘It’s here, in the public access space. It’s very good; there are some other exhibits, too, from various other research strands, but Make-Believe is the focus. You’ll be familiar with the information, of course, but it’s interestingly presented. There’s a charge for entry, I believe – but if you’re interested, I could have a word?’

  ‘That’s very kind. I’d love to see it.’ She walked alongside Morgan to the entrance, past a group of students who were huddled together, showing off their personalised receivers. Cassie gestured towards them. ‘You must feel – when you see people using your technology – it’s an amazing achievement.’

  ‘Well.’ She looked surprised. ‘I suppose I do.’

  Cassie was improvising now, reluctant to let her go. Off the top of her head, she said, ‘I mean, I’m completely out of the
loop, but in terms of the original growth targets …’

  ‘Not my area.’ Morgan seemed to bristle, her tone suddenly clipped. ‘It’s the nature of unforeseen complications. They’re impossible to predict.’ She raised a hand to catch the attention of a uniformed man, gestured towards Cassie, then to the exhibition space. The man smiled, tilted his head in an OK sign. ‘He’ll let you straight through,’ said Morgan. ‘And now I must get on.’

  She walked briskly through the security gates. Didn’t offer a parting handshake. Didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When she’d finally managed to lose the girl, Morgan took the lift to the first floor. There, she went straight to the ladies’. Placed her briefcase by the basin. Washed her hands, the water as hot as it would go.

  ‘Christ,’ she said, staring at her reflection. ‘What. What now.’

  She had recognised the face – and then when the girl introduced herself the name had been familiar. But it had taken a minute for her to remember. Cassandra McAllister. She was part of the team at Imagen, a mid-level employee. And she’d been a red flag. One of the first.

  Morgan rubbed her scalp, digging her fingers into her hair, trying to massage away a growing headache. Her first jolt of concern, once she’d placed Cassandra, had been for her private research. A fear that the girl had been tasked to find out about any unauthorised projects. But no one could be aware of how far that research had progressed – and indeed, Cassandra had seemed to know nothing of it. Which was not to say she knew nothing at all.

  Morgan knew she shouldn’t have spoken to her. Should have insisted she make an appointment, then told Lisa to put her name on the blacklist. But she’d been taken by surprise, which was presumably part of the plan. Whatever the plan might be, and to whomever it might belong.

  God, she looked a fright, with her hair out in spikes like some stereotype of a mad scientist. Grimly, she persuaded it back into a more respectable arrangement. That was the real issue, wasn’t it: who had the girl been talking to? Was she acting alone, or had she been sent – perhaps as some kind of test? The time outs, the collaboration, a user with mental health problems … she knew something alright, but her questions had been … odd. Not what you’d expect, if the girl had been briefed by someone with access to the facts.

  Either way, she would have to report the encounter. To warn Imagen, or simply to cover her own back.

  Of course, it was just about possible the girl had been telling the truth. That she really was working on a psychology project. Well, that would be easy enough to check. She’d moved on from Imagen, that was her story – but hadn’t she, in fact, been sacked? For overstaying in Make-Believe, for not reporting her time out failure. Morgan shook her head. A brutal way to silence someone. But if that was so, perhaps the girl was merely investigating her own circumstance, hoping to bring a claim for unfair dismissal. In which case, it was even more essential to warn Tom and the whole of the senior management team, in order to avoid any tricky publicity.

  Morgan picked up her briefcase. Walked out of the ladies’, down the stairs and out of the Newman building, across the square and into the Bray Tower.

  Ten minutes after she’d left it she was back at her desk, door locked, screen in hand. Readying herself to make a call.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the centre of a white room hung a head, two metres tall and made of light. Pale curves and outlines rendered the skull, the mass of brain within. The display must have worked on a motion sensor: when Cassie stepped towards the head, it glowed a fraction more brightly, and a short text appeared in front of her. Make-Believe: how does it work?

  As the text faded, the head spun round to present her with a profile. At the bridge of the nose, colour bloomed, a pulse of turquoise that dissolved into thousands of pinpricks. Specially programmed biomolecules are introduced into the body via a single dose of nasal spray, said the accompanying text – and a thousand specks of light spread through the nasal membrane, swirled like seed heads on the air, each travelling to an assigned location where it settled, and dimmed. Watching, Cassie felt a pressure in her own nose, like the warning of a bleed. That spray: it had stung – and there had been a smell, too, or a taste, which the display couldn’t capture. For her it had been hot plastic, lingering faintly for days, but some colleagues had described it as metallic, sweet, or ammoniac, and others reported no taste or smell at all.

  The brain was threaded with turquoise now, densely meshed in some parts, more loosely laced in others. Make-Believe biomolecules, in position, ready to carry out their individual tasks.

  The biomolecules work with a receiver, worn as an earpiece, said the text, to transform imagination into reality. Cassie watched as a receiver was sketched onto the ear of the head, and its function light flashed on.

  One set of biomolecules is programmed to function as a switch. A turquoise glow pulsed thinly across the brain. When triggered by an electronic signal from the user’s receiver, they activate and deactivate other sets of biomolecules, controlling the Make-Believe experience. A loud click: the sound snapped through the space, like someone had pressed a light switch. The glow spread, brightened, till the whole blue mesh of biomolecules was illuminated.

  On the floor something darkened, drawing her gaze downwards. A trail of shadowy footprints was beckoning her to walk inside the skull. She followed them, fitting her paces to the shadow-steps, and stopped when they did. Here, at the centre of the room, she could turn a complete circle, looking out through the sheer outlines of the brain, at the threads of blue, and the white walls beyond.

  When the biomolecules are active, they mute external stimuli such as light, sound, pressure, smells and tastes.

  Outside the skull, a ribbon of light scribbled soundwaves in the air, zigzagging green towards her; at the same time, birdsong sounded, its notes and gaps matching the peaks and dips of light – then the soundwaves reached the ear canal and faded, from emerald to aqua to a scarcely visible wash, and the singing dropped away. For a second, no sound. No movement. Then the space around her burst into light and colour: yellow stars tumbling towards her, and violet triangles, red spheres, blue cubes, each shape, each colour representing a different sense, all falling fast till they reached the surface of the skull – its eyes or mouth, nose or skin, and Cassie ducked, raised a hand against—

  Nothing. Everything gone: faded, dissolved, disintegrated.

  She lowered her hand. It was a clever representation, but it was nothing like it – that moment of your dissolving self, of perfect non-existence. The need, the hunger stirred inside her, reaching, stretching. She shifted her feet, squeaking her soles on the hard reality of the floor.

  The text was explaining how the external stimuli were muted, by intercepting the chemical and electrical signals at the sites where the brain would otherwise interpret them and turn them into a precept, or something perceived. In this way, it said, the user becomes unaware of everything but the most intrusive inputs from the outside world.

  That was a modification. The first iterations had blocked external stimuli completely; the mute function was one of many alterations they’d had to make before the technology could be licensed for commercial use. A user must be able to perceive stimuli of an intensity that would wake a heavy sleeper, for instance a smoke alarm, or a child’s persistent screaming. It was amazing, though, what you could sleep through if your dreams were sweet enough. You woke back in the real world, the front door open—

  Above and around her, sections of brain lit into action, glowing orange. The user then begins to imagine their virtual reality, said the text. As they do so, the relevant portions of their brain become active.

  Portions. A strange word to choose. Made her think of brains for lunch, scooped out with the suck of a serving spoon, a grey helping dumped, wobbling and sliding, on a blank white plate.

  The biomolecules are programmed to respond to this activation in two ways. One set instructs the relevant neurological pathways t
o transmit these signals to the parts of the brain that control sensory perception.

  More sound effects. The spit and hiss of scores of electric shocks as, all around her, neurons fired – a criss-cross tracery of sparking threads, each transmitting its own Make-Believe message. She stood amid the fireworks and, despite it all, felt herself lift with a childish delight – the thrill of Bonfire Night, of fire blazing through the dark – till she thought of Alan, and the rockets turned to flares. Bonfire night to a war zone.

  This causes the user to experience what he or she imagines, through all sensory modalities: sight, sound, smell, taste, touch and proprioception.

  If they were together, which would it be? Her fireworks? His war zone?

  Or would the hiss be the rain (she closed her eyes, imagined it so) and the spit the sound of raindrops hitting the tent of leaves above their heads, in the place they’d always found each other?

  Through the fizz-pop sound effects, the shout of a child. A boy, running into the white room. Stopping dead, mouth open. ‘Mum – Dad – look!’ His family following, mum and dad and an older sister – ‘But what’s it meant to be?’ – as the boy jumped into the middle of it all, turning and turning, grabbing at shooting threads of light.

  Another set of molecules acts as a biological/electronic transducer, transforming biological data to electronic information. This is transmitted via the user’s receiver and a secure 6G network to Imagen’s central servers. In this way, details of the user’s imagined experience, encoded as digital packets, can be analysed and stored, and used to enhance future experiences.

  Data in, data out. When she’d laughed at the idea of a shared Make-Believe, Morgan’s eye contact had been ostentatious, the shake of her head overemphatic. Such an obvious show of honesty, Cassie had known she must be lying. Spontaneous connections, she’d said; but Cassie had mentioned nothing about the nature of the shared experiences supposedly being reported by her psychology study subjects. A ridiculous idea, Morgan had said; meaning it had to be true. Meaning yes, that a doctor could connect with a patient. Meaning more than that; because if one user could connect with another – if two people together could Make-Believe – then it wasn’t Make-Believe at all. Wasn’t something that happened only in your head, in your imagination.