by Duncan Long
“End,” I said, trying not to lose my temper. I definitely didn’t need to see that one since I might be joining the lucky losers all too soon if I was forced to do some jetting of my own. What the hell was wrong with my MC? None of the stories were within my search domain. And then there was that ad that got through. “Do you still have my filters in place on the news server?” I asked the computer.
“Yes, but they’ve been non-functioned.”
“Non-funked? Virus?”
“Flash update to 17.2.2 yesterday. A bypass command in the code was hidden within the update so your filter can’t override it anymore. I was ordered not to alert the user unless asked about the problem. Now I can only receive the corporate news with the ads.”
I swore under my breath. Everybody knew corpnews was just so much fluff and prop when it came to real information — not to mention often full of subliminals and viruses. And the ads were always obnoxious. No doubt advertisers had paid big money to the programmers updating the software. If I wanted to read ads, I would have bought adplants. Obviously I did not. Yet here I was, stuck with unfiltered junk instead of the precise news and data I had taken pains to capture.
It was getting more and more dangerous to update software. “Some days I think we should break your code into applets.”
“Sir?”
“Only kidding. Remind me to update you later.”
“I will.”
“Are you able to override the new programming?”
“No. Your subroutine is still in place but — Excuse me. The agent has returned from subweb with the data check you requested on Jeff Huntington.”
“Great. Erase the news files and let’s see what you have.”
I settled back to see what I could learn before that terrible moment I knew must happen, and wondered if today would be that moment when overtaxed synapses exploded in one last glorious, overwhelming wave of knowledge that washed over my mind; I vanished, drowning in the mist of exploding brain cells.
Chapter 5
Louis Berlioz
I regained consciousness to a chilling quiet, my cubical tumbling in a seemingly impossible manner, bright light strobing through the port with each rotation, interspersed with the jet blackness of space.
Why haven’t they stopped the mission, I wondered, releasing the retaining straps and pulling myself around toward the emergency hatch. Why am I still in this android body? I should have been back on Earth, not in my mechanical self out here in space.
I grasped the release lever on the hatch and started to jerk it open. Then my hand froze as a warning beep sounded; my eyes riveted on the glowing display above the release. “Danger” it said. “Exterior Air Pressure Lost.” So that meant there was a vacuum on the other side of the door. And opening the door would mean sudden decompression — and…
What?
It meant they had kept our mechanical selves pressurized after all, and no doubt with good reason. So would I fail to operate in a vacuum? Or could I be in the open for perhaps hours without ill effect? Questions I didn’t know the answer to.
More importantly, what would happen if this mechanical body was damaged with my mind still in it? Had our quantum machine onboard the ship been destroyed leaving me trapped in this mechanical monstrosity of a body?
Why haven’t they called us back? Why am I still out here?
I carefully let go of the lever on the hatch, realizing how close I’d come to — what? Killing myself?
I turned back toward the port, and noticed the debris floating outside in the bright light. I stared for a moment at the plastic and steel fragments tumbling around me, failing to identify the odd shapes mixed in the metal wreckage. Then I realized what I was seeing: What had once been the human crewmen, frozen in the ice of their own blood as their bodies tumbled in cold space.
Also machanicals. One was Sam. His face was just like all the others, but he had “5” on his back. Sam’s number. And Sam no longer was moving or reacting to the debris around him.
So perhaps the vacuum was “deadly” to our mechanical bodies. Or perhaps Sam was back on Earth and this was just his unoccupied mechanical. I couldn’t tell.
The light grew so bright I could no longer see. Turning away from the port, I covered my always-open mechanical eyes with a hand. And then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I prayed silently but fervently.
There was a clang of metal against metal. Suddenly my compartment stopped spinning, throwing me against the wall. Sharp steel claws grated across the exterior surface with a jarring screech.
Has a rescue ship reached us already? I asked myself. “No.” That was impossible. The nearest ship would most likely be at least a month away. I couldn’t have been unconscious that long.
Or could I? Had the Jet somehow altered my perception of time? Or had the quantum machinery my mind ran through somehow malfunctioned with the crash and trapped me here for months?
What the hell is going on!?!
The light outside vanished and I found myself pulled to the floor by nearly one G, as near as I could judge. Another impossibility in a growing list.
I turned back toward the port. Neon shapes crept in the darkness on the other side of the port. They were coming closer. There was a scraping on the outside hull behind me.
I turned.
The handle on the hatch rotated into the “open” position with a loud hiss.
Ralph Crocker
According to Huntington’s records and files, he’d led quite a life. The more I read about him, the less I wanted to turn him in. But I knew that if I decided against betraying him, snatching him out of the jaws of Death (as it were), I’d also have to devise a way to protect my soft parts (and underwear) from the ravages of our neighborhood Grim Reaper.
Also, I knew I’d eventually have to keep a lookout for government agents from the Powers because they would undoubtedly be nosing around looking for Huntington, too. Nor were they shy about cutting a few legal corners, which was why they always got their man.
And then there were the Harvies.
Yes, keeping myself out of the old meat grinder was going to be as tricky as de-worming the early bird.
Yet Death would never have chosen me for the job if there’d been any chance his hunters could have nabbed the guy; Death would rather see me suffer a slow, lingering demise. He’d forgone that pleasure for the time being to get Huntington. Since not many other people in this end of town could do what I could with computers, or at least few were willing to take the risks in doing what I did, Death had been forced to exploit me, rather than kill me.
My criminal skills had probably saved my life — at least for the next two days. But unless I really got lucky it wasn’t going to be easy to live past the next two days.
The key lead I had was a list of SupeR-Gs that Huntington frequented on the net. Whether he still went to them after going underground, and how often, was impossible to say. If I did locate him in a SupeR-G — not an easy task even when your brain was absorbing extra code through jet — I would have to be careful not to scare him off.
Now a guy can’t just go up to fellow players in a SupeR-G and ask if they were so-and-so. Doing so would guarantee that you’d quickly be killed in the game. Even if you somehow managed to avoid being murdered by angry players, no one was going to offer to tell you who they really were until you gained their confidence.
Gaining confidence took time.
Time I didn’t have.
So there was good and bad news.
The good news was that Death had given me the vial of jet. That would make my job easier since I’d have complete input from the extra SupeR-G code that most programmers added just for wired heads — or jet users. While jet was illegal; code and hard wiring wasn’t, so the code was available in most SupeR-Gs and the Supreme currently ignored it, no doubt saving it for some future crackdown when the prison population was lagging or as a service that would justify another tier of taxes.
The reason I had to risk us
ing jet was the extra nuances invisible to non-jet users and even “see” what the other players looked like, even down to facial features and other clues added to the code for those players who were also using jet. And judging from Huntington’s major attendance of SupeR-Gs, I was betting he was a major jetter.
The bad news was also that Death had given me a vial of jet. The hallucinogen was so dangerous that if I failed while doing the drug, there wouldn’t be anything for me to worry about afterward. A recycling crew would come in and clean my brains off the walls and I would have died quickly and maybe even happily in the throes of love, shot by an angry husband during my grand finale of adventure.
Yes, SupeR-G with jet was the best of games and the worst of games.
What more could a growing boy ask for?
I searched Huntington’s records on my view screen goggles for some clue that might betray him when he was simming on the net. The documents Death had given me showed Huntington had worked for what had been the United States of America’s air force back during the First Indochina War — the one commonly known then as the Vietnam War.
That was a surprise because that war was back in the twentieth century. The guy was ancient. As in antique.
Very antique.
Although he wasn’t a flier, somehow he’d managed to be on a plane when it got shot down over Hanoi. Some trick there. He’d been captured and apparently tortured and crippled during the process since the Vietnamese, like most anyone else, didn’t take too kindly people dropping bombs on their wives, children, and water buffalo, undeclared war or no.
As I continued to read between the lines and translate the encrypted English of the bureaucrateese, it became obvious that Huntington had suffered a great deal during his long life. That type of suffering would leave its mark, even over a century later. When I learned to recognize its emotional fingerprints in the SupeR-G side code, it might enable me to identify him beneath the most elaborate of web disguises.
He survived his ordeal in the US Air Force and was awarded something called a purple heart (I filed that away for later checking in the histo docs) and had wounds leaving him in a wheelchair. He’d also lost an eye during the ordeal — that might be something to watch for in the SupeR-Gs as well, since characters often forget to alter facial features they’ve come to live with.
After the war, Huntington’s luck had changed. He’d inherited a small fortune from an aunt. He’d spent his money frugally, building on his electronics skills and broadening them with a chemical engineering degree, compliments of something called the GI Bill.
He then put what was left of his aunt’s inheritance into making one of the first successful reasoning MCs. He’d sold his company just before its stocks crashed with everything else in ‘45. From there he went to build the first practical PT and mental-com units, one of which was now hardwired into his frontal lobe.
According to his medical records, he’d obtained one of the few legal eternal mods, just before the procedure of modifying chromosomal telomeres became illegal.
That seemed to explain why he was still alive. With any luck he could live a thousand years longer. No wonder the government wanted to cancel his 100,000 a year ticket.
For some reason he’d never bothered to get new legs or a replacement eye. Instead he used old-fashioned wheelchair and wore an eye patch with an input plug in his left eye socket, augmenting other hardwire implants to his brain. The guy was wired and weird from the looks of the last known photo of him that was included with his files.
He also was a friend of Craig Kaiser.
Right.
The Craig Kaiser, credited with all sorts of bioengineering work, and the developer of Jet. Was there a connection between Huntington’s chemical engineering degree and Kaiser? It seemed to me like quite a coincidence if there was not.
Perhaps Death was using the government-is-looking-for-him story for a screen; Death might be the only one after Huntington to get a lead on manufacturing jet, which had thus far proved impossible for drug dealers on the street to reverse engineer or synthesize. No one knew where the drug was produced, or how it became distributed at the street level. If Death got a hold of that information, he’d go from being the owner of a neighborhood to King of the World in one easy step.
That had to be Death’s angle.
Something else was fishy. As talented as the Huntington was, it was unlikely he’d be on the government hit list. Heck, he could buy Death and the government off if he needed to. The guy had enough money to be a nation. No, there was more to this than I’d been told.
Death must be after the jet. Maybe the Powers were, too.
I no longer felt so sorry for Huntington, even though he was horribly handicapped and had apparently lived a sometimes-tragic life. It’s hard to feel sorry for someone that makes Midas look like a pauper.
I thought a moment. Maybe I could turn Huntington in, avoid Death for a while (since he would undoubtedly double cross, if not kill me either way), and maybe get out of the mess with my life, avoiding my Nearer, My God, to Thee moment that seemed all too likely if I simply went along with Death’s plan.
It was time to look out for number one, to get my rear out of the line of fire.
But first, I’d have to find Huntington and get some answers. After that I could throw him to the wolves.
Yes, that’s what has to be done. No more feeling sorry for the guy.
It was him or me. He’d had a long life. He wasn’t as pure as the driven snot. I could rationalize trading his life for mine — but first I had to find him.
That’s where the jet came in, along with all its risks. I had to use it. The records showed Huntington’s SupeR-G attendance was daunting; the guy must have been into jet in a big way and had all the earmarks of a multiple personality whizzer. The SupeR-Gs were my only chance of finding him in two days. The trick would be finding the right SupeR-G, and then managing to recognize him. Then I’d have to hack the site and track his anonymous e-cash back to the source.
I fought off a feeling of panic as I thought of all I had to do, of the blind luck I’d have to have. I was tempted to suck the muzzle of my favorite pistol right then and there and get it over with.
Focus.
I took a deep breath.
Looking over the list of SupeR-Gs Huntington regularly visited, I tried to narrow the sites to just a handful, concentrating on those that seemed the less dangerous to visit. Jet enabled you to immerse yourself in the side code for an experience that was more real than life. But there was a catch. A user’s brain filled in all the gaps in the code to create a whole, seemingly real fabric. Jet abusers felt pain just like the real thing. Just as real as everything else in the SupeR-G. Extreme pain — or the apparent death of a user — could prove fatal due to the excessive stress on his heart.
Jet isn’t all fun and games.
Nor was it an on/off proposition. Jet stayed in the bloodstream until the drug was exhausted by the receptor cells in his nervous system. While it was in his bloodstream, it was impossible to pull the mind out of the whole SupeR-G world that had been created. So once someone jetted into a system, they were there until the ride ended.
And if the ride came to a sudden and violent end before the jet ran out, the shock could fire the starting pistol for a race between the arteries in the brain and the heart, seeing which would rupture first.
For most people jetting into a SupeR-G, anything from an imaginary car wreck, to getting stabbed with a sword, became a fatal event. The person didn’t die of the wound in the SupeR-G; rather, the sudden shock of what was perceived by the mind as a massive injury, led to a brain aneurysm or heart attack.
The question: How had Huntington survived all his heavy attendance of SupeR-Gs noted for their dangers. That was a mystery for the time being. Either he was very skilled or had developed some way to protect himself or cheat the system.
A new form of Jet perhaps?
That might explain the interest both the government and D
eath had in finding him.
I continued studying the files for any other clues.
Finally it was time to enter the fray.
I addressed the MC. “Computer.”
“Yes?”
“Sort through Huntington’s list of SupeR-Gs with an eye toward where I’d be most likely to encounter him.”
“Sort finished. The ‘Vietnam War In Indochina’ SupeR-G is unlisted and has low attendance. Normally he’s there during this hour. You therefore have a very high probability of finding him there.”
“You have the address?”
“Last hack included it.”
Maybe I was finally going to get a lucky break. It was about time.
There was just that nagging question: Do you really want to do something this stupid?
I held the vial of jet in my fist, reflecting on the time in rehab, hands shaking. Sweat broke out on my forehead and detox conditioning sent a wave of nausea washing over me.
I ran for the bathroom.
What a day. What a life. What a choice.
After emptying my stomach and then re-filling it with liquids so I wouldn’t dehydrate if I got stuck in an extended stay on the net, I threw an absorbent towel over my chair and settled into it. I closed my eyes, and forced myself to relax.
“Maximum security,” I told my MC. “Use the emergency generator if you need to and shoot to kill if someone other than a medic breaks in. Don’t shut down my connection unless you have to. If you do, loop me and have an alternate line open and ready. I want to net-jet undisturbed.”
“You’re net jetting?”
“Your auto report circuit is still overridden, isn’t it?” I asked with a sudden cringe of terror at the possibility that my computer might this very minute be reporting my drug infraction to the authorities.
“My virtual lips are sealed. No reports of your sins to the cops from me.”
“That’s good,” I said, ignoring the hint of sarcasm in the machine’s voice. If the flash updates ever started changing that bit of programming protection, I would be dancing the hokey poky for sure. Meantime, the hack of my MC was one of my get-out-of-jail-free cards.
