by Paul Anlee
Thanks to his standard operating procedure for investigating new inworlds, rather than acute foresight, Trillian evaded the worst of the effect. Before connecting to Alternus, he’d isolated his inworld interface from deeper mental structures.
As it had been designed to do, the virus slipped through his firewall and was already seeding doubt before Trillian could reprogram his belief network—his concepta—to ignore it. He disengaged before his core persona was critically subverted, but the virus had gotten close. Too close.
Once safely away from the inworld, it took a few hours of concerted effort to identify and remove the nasty effects. The ego-checking close call convinced him to drop any idea of a frontal assault in favor of a more indirect infiltration. He enjoyed a challenge—to a point. It kept things interesting, but he had work to do, and “interesting” was getting in the way.
Sitting at the dining table looking at his alternate portal to Alternus—tucked behind an innocent looking closet door—Trillian felt pleased with his new plan.
Casa DonTon provided the perfect platform. The portal’s data paths were routed close to the virus-infected hardware substrate on which the Alternus inworld simulation ran but were not affected by it. And while DonTon’s instantiated Full population was relatively small, its participants were sufficiently shallow and silly. He wouldn’t be overly taxed by the sim itself, and he’d have ample opportunity to probe Alternus’ supervisory defenses while keeping up the pretense of social niceties. It was a delectable plan, if he did say so himself. Whoever designed the Alternus inworld would never expect an invasion coming from such a self-absorbed and non-threatening neighbor as Casa DonTon.
The clattering peach bowls that jerked the Shard’s attention back to the dining room, also drew his attention to the dazed Footman.
My, my, what have we here? How interesting. My lattice probing at the edges of the Alternus sim portal seems to have had an unexpected effect on the wait staff Partial, Timothy.
Trillian reviewed what he knew about the knowledge-belief space of Partials for a clue as to how a cursory probe into Alternus might have disrupted the Footman.
* * *
The Supervisor program discreetly pinged the waiting Partial: Unregistered Instantiation. Reporting anomaly now. Please wait.
That doesn’t sound very reassuring—Timothy noted. .
He straightened his posture and addressed Lady Chattingbaron. “Troubles appear to have originated in the hardware matrix as a result of anomalous sunspot activity, my Lady,” he lied. “Everything is fine now.” He calmly resumed serving dessert.
“Unregistered Instantiation?” Me? That’s not possible.
The Footman maintained his usual serene external demeanor, while his mind reeled. He was a Partial, he was sure of it. An Unregistered Instantiation would be a Full persona with no real body, a mind existing in the inworld without an associated physical trueself registered outworld.
The Supervisor must be mistaken—he thought. Partials can’t become fully instantiated with independent personas unless they have been selected by the committee as candidates for embodiment outworld. I haven’t been selected.
Timothy blinked rapidly. How such knowledge had appeared in his mind, he had no idea. It seemed as if the information spontaneously emerged in his consciousness of its own accord. How odd!
He scanned the room nervously. His mind, his whole persona, felt richer and deeper than it had moments earlier. Once the Supervisor isolates my knowledge-belief space and sees that I’ve gone from Partial to Full, they’ll scrub it. I don’t want to be scrubbed!
What are my options? There’s no point in hiding. I can’t very well throw myself at the mercy of the Supervisor and hope for the best. Should I wait here to be erased, or take over one of the Family’s outworld bodies?
Timothy’s hand paused mid-air, a scoop of ice cream hovering above Lady Mirabel’s bowl. He was having thoughts. I’m having independent thoughts. I’m thinking. And I lied! To Lady Chattingbaron, no less! How is that possible?
For the first time in his long existence as a DonTon server, Timothy was thinking outside his simple, inworld programming. His hand remained frozen as he considered the ramifications. Thinking for myself? Astounding!
The artfully-formed ball of ice cream he held in mid-air, however, did not remain frozen. It dripped. Once. Twice. Its center of gravity slipped perilously close to the edge of the spoon.
With an elegant swoop of the wrist, Timothy prevented the escape and delivered the creamy globe neatly atop the waiting peaches.
The house guests had already resumed their conversations and noticed neither the slip nor sleight of hand. Even the eagle-eyed Head Butler, busily pouring steaming coffee and tea, gave no indication he’d seen anything amiss.
Timothy finished dessert service and took his place in front of the polished oak sideboard. He kept his movements measured and his face neutral. He was sure the Securitors would intervene and take him away at any moment. I’ve got it! I could steal an automobile and escape to London. No one would find me in those crowds.
What am I thinking? Nobody can evade an omnipotent inworld Supervisor and ruthless Securitor agents. It’s hopeless. I might as well face my fate with the dignity the Family deserves.
Crestfallen but ever professional, Timothy hid his misery. My experience of consciousness is going to be the shortest independent life the Realm has ever recorded.
With dessert course ingested and a promising evening ahead, the Family and guests stood. “Shall we retire to the Library for a brandy?” Lord Chattingbaron asked his male guests.
The ladies exchanged coquettish smiles, knowing one drink would lead to a second, and the second to a third, along with a cigar or two while the female coterie sipped sherry and played cards in the sitting room. Both groups looked forward to the dances and games that would follow, once dinner had a chance to settle and the two groups were brought back together in the Grand Salon.
As the others filed out of the room, Mr. Trillian lingered behind to examine an unremarkable painting displayed on the wall facing his chair. The painting happened to be hanging beside the same closet door that had drawn his interest over dinner.
The Head Butler caught Timothy’s attention, and raised his bushy eyebrows meaningfully toward the dawdling guest. Satisfied that Timothy would see to Mr. Trillian, he took his leave.
“A stirring rendition of Lord Chattingbaron’s Great Grandfather at the hunt,” Timothy expounded as he approached Mr. Trillian. Within two steps of the guest, the bees resumed their buzzing. This time, the Footman’s hand was free and he brushed the air near his right ear.
Trillian caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to face the Footman. “Are you sure the self-diagnostic was correct?”
Timothy shook his head to clear the sound; the action served only to make the room swim unsteadily. “Quite sure,” he confirmed, and rested his hand against the wall. “But, perhaps I should sit a moment.”
He dropped into the chair beside the closet door. “I’m sure it will pass.” He waved his hand, dismissing the guest’s extended hand. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”
Trillian turned back to the closet door.
The buzzing noise in Timothy’s head grew. Unseen swarms circled him, and the room swam in and out of focus. He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to regain his equilibrium. The soft creak of the closet door pierced the droning buzz, and a wave of hot air washed over him. The dense, complex odors of a large, industrial city assaulted the confused Footman.
Fighting a nauseating dizziness, Timothy opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. He steadied his balance with a hand to the wall and looked into the closet.
The dark, confined space he expected to see was not there. Instead of a few tidy shelves of cleaning supplies, two brooms, and a dustpan, the closet opened onto a city, the likes of which Timothy could not have imagined.
Impossibly tall buildings lined a bro
ad, busy street filled with more people than he had ever seen at one time.
The people were dressed oddly. Some men wore business suits, identifiable as such despite their strange cut and the absence of proper headwear. And the women! Timothy was shocked by their immodest garb. Why, he could see the bare knees and thighs of those who wore dresses or short skirts! The majority of people sported embarrassingly inappropriate casual attire. Men and women clad in skin-tight blue pants. Trades people, perhaps? Had they not been situated in the middle of a bustling city, he would have thought them farmers.
While the vestments were odd, the automobiles absolutely astonished him. He had never seen such sleek machinery, not in all his days. And there were so many of them. The collective noise that emanated as drivers impatiently roared engines and honked horns was an affront to the senses. Even worse, the language the drivers shouted at any pedestrian or vehicle that dared impede their progress was an insult to his sensibilities.
Timothy didn’t recognize Mr. Trillian right away; the guest’s clothing had changed to match the style of the better-accoutered businessmen on the sidewalk around him. But that was definitely him. He stood well into the impossibly expanded closet, blending into that magnificent and frightful city. While Timothy tried to make sense of the scene, Mr. Trillian stretched out his arms, laughed, and twirled around, taking in his new surroundings.
Timothy stood on wobbly legs in the open doorframe and watched him, too flabbergasted to move.
Shard Trillian glanced back over his shoulder and noticed the stunned Footman standing at the door. He dropped his arms, amused by the anomaly. From the city side in which the Shard stood, the doorway opened into an opulently-furnished dining room from another era. Few of the frenetic passersby spared a second glance at the formally-dressed servant frozen in the open portal. After all, this was New York.
The Shard made a sweeping motion with one hand. “Would you mind closing that, please?” he requested, pointing to the door.
It was clear he expected programmed obedience from the servant. He turned without a second glance and set off down the sidewalk, disappearing into an ocean of bobbing heads.
Timothy teetered indecisively. A gasp from the dining room reminded him where he was.
Lady Chattingbaron paused at the main entrance, a hand delicately covering her gaping mouth. Behind her, Timothy glimpsed a hovering matte-black, spherical Securitor. She hadn’t sensed it yet; her full attention was locked on the impossible scene in the closet.
“Timothy…,” she began. The Securitor projected a greenish beam that encapsulated and silenced her. The menacing sphere pushed past her paralyzed virtual-body and floated into the room.
Timothy bolted over the closet threshold and into the strange world, slamming the door shut behind him.
The new city was much bigger than the London he knew, in fact, bigger than any city he knew. Maybe he could hide from the Securitors here. He ran down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from Mr. Trillian, bouncing off irritated virtual New Yorkers of 2040. A stream of profanity, fluttering pages, and angry gestures followed the Footman’s clumsy flight.
Back in Casa DonTon’s family dining room, the Securitor ripped the closet door from its hinges. Inside, it found a few shelves, two brooms, a dustpan, and some polishing cloths. The city was gone.
Anomaly has escaped—the Securitor reported. Its smooth voice was devoid of anger and frustration. It scanned the virtual room for any trace of Timothy. Finding none, it left.
21
Brother Stralasi and Darak toured the remaining ten Realm colonies in galaxy NGC4567 in five days. From there, they jumped to M87 in the heart of the Virgo cluster, visited a hundred of the major colonies, and headed out on the long journey toward the Origin galaxy, affectionately known throughout the Realm as the Milky Way.
Four months and over a hundred planets after leaving Gargus, Darak and the Good Brother arrived on Rafael 263.3, the twelfth colony Darak wanted to visit within the galaxy the ancient index identified as NGC4450. They were a little over fourteen million light years from Home World.
Their tour of colonized planetary systems in the Virgo Cluster illustrated the homogenizing effect of Alum’s Realm. Though the worlds were at considerably different stages of development—as would be expected given the millions of years separating oldest from newest—they shared many common characteristics.
Everywhere the pair travelled, people worked, played, and prayed the same way. Cities and towns grew. People tended farms and planetary ecologies. They courted, married, and raised children. They attended to Alum’s works and they were happy.
Brother Stralasi’s view of the established worlds changed dramatically during their travels. It had come as quite a shock to the otherwise broadly educated and well-informed monk that it wasn’t Alum who directly blessed the worlds with His riches. The prayers people sent to Alum from the Alumitas and Foundation buildings throughout the Realm were secretly rerouted to local Cybrids. The Cybrids stationed in support asteroids genetically engineered practically everything grown for the People, and whatever wasn’t grown, was built and repaired by other Cybrids. While Alum directed activity in His Realm, the Cybrids carried out the work.
Every trip he and Darak took to a new planetary system included a visit to the local Integration Lab and, every time, Darak would send him off to enjoy the peaceful gardens, while he stayed back to discuss some secret project with the Cybrid scientists.
Stralasi inquired, casually at first, what his business might be with the Cybrids. Every time, Darak artfully deflected his questions.
After several similar instances, and an equal number of redirects, curiosity got the better of the monk and he asked more pointedly.
Darak still refused to discuss what he was doing with the Cybrids. “After all,” he said, “if even they don’t know why they’re doing what I ask, why should I put you at risk?”
“With all due respect, I humbly submit that my exposure to risk has been so extreme to this point, surely I could bear such a small additional burden of deeper knowledge,” Stralasi challenged. “You praise knowledge as the best way to combat the People’s ‘unreasonable’ devotion to Alum. How is this any different?”
Darak harrumphed. “You have been listening, then.” No further explanation was forthcoming.
As the two arrived at the third planet in under forty-eight hours, a bedazzled and exhausted Stralasi could not resist remarking to Darak how everywhere in Alum’s Realm felt like home.
“Praise be to Yov for creating such a wondrous universe,” the monk exclaimed, “and to Alum for blessing it with so many perfect worlds for His People.”
“Goodness. You have no inkling of the real nature of the Realm, do you?” Darak replied. “Would you like me to show you what these worlds are truly like?”
“What do you mean? I was with you. I saw them for myself.”
“What you saw was a version of each world filtered through your lattice, which I synchronized according to local starstep parameters.”
Stralasi stared blankly at him.
“Listen, even an amateur astronomer would appreciate that habitable worlds vary over a wide range of parameters: different gravity, atmosphere, light spectrum, diurnal period, seasons, length of year, and so on. It’s much easier to change the inhabitants’ perceptions of the planets than it is to alter the planets to fit one Standard physiology.”
“If you say so,” Stralasi uttered. He gave his imagination free reign to work out the implications, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice the questions that resulted.
Darak gave the monk a friendly nudge. “Did you think humans were not included in the work done at the Integration Labs?”
Modification of the People themselves? Stralasi had never imagined such an idea. Altering a person’s essence—their DNA, he reminded himself—was bizarre, potentially catastrophic, and likely immoral.
“If the People are genetically modified to suit the different worlds, why
do we all look and feel more or less the same everywhere we go?” he challenged.
Darak waited patiently for Stralasi to arrive at the answer on his own. Insight struck the Brother’s brain like an electric shock: “Our lattices!” he exclaimed.
Darak nodded. “Yes, your lattices. In the same way they are used to deliver information or entertainment directly into your senses, they can be altered to make you accept what you perceive or remember as perfectly normal. The true perceptual experience doesn’t have to be overridden, only your cognitive or emotional response to the experience. When you recall your visit to a different planet, the details of that memory are filtered through your belief of what it must have been like. Everything is adjusted to expectations by your lattice.”
“I want to know the reality,” Stralasi demanded.
Darak lifted his hand, palm upward, in a motion symbolic of lifting the veil of deceit over Stralasi’s memories. Recollections of impossible places flooded the Brother’s mind. Visions of monsters only marginally recognizable as humans were overlaid with images of how he had perceived them through his lattice filter.
On some planets, people were short and powerful with thick bones and strong muscles, an indication of heavier than normal gravity. On other worlds, the inhabitants were delicate creatures, tall and lithesome. Some planets suffered with extreme cold and their people were characterized by fur coats, short noses, and tiny, flat ears. Other worlds were so hot that inhabitants sprouted enormous cooling fins in the middle of their backs. On water-covered worlds, the inhabitants had both flippers and gills. The images that remained in Stralasi’s memory, from all these strange worlds, were of green lands and people who looked like him.
