by Paul Anlee
They broke off around 3:30, and went their separate ways with assigned tasks and contact lists in hand. The revised lists included individuals who had sizeable followings in a broad range of popular social media, print, or film. The list didn’t include a single politician; not one had sufficient public credibility.
Darya grabbed the subway back to her office near the UN Plaza. Halfway there, she decided to get off and walk the rest of the way. Meandering along the way between Greenwich Village and the UN was an effective way to reset.
The atmosphere had changed considerably over the years. The streets leading up to the UN and its coterie of well-paid employees were lined with beggars. Darya tossed a few coins to the ones she recognized. A number of them she considered friends, or nearly so, having shared lengthy conversations from time to time. They moved around within a several-block radius, so she was never sure who she might encounter on any given day, but they were a good source of strikingly alternative perspectives.
Today’s walk revealed a new face. Darya slowed as she neared the disheveled and peculiarly dressed fellow. His soft face was carved with fatigue and he looked more out-of-place than others in the row of resigned countenances. She couldn’t recall seeing him at all before. Granted, she’d been away six months on outworld assignment and had been inundated with distracting and urgent demands on her attention since getting back.
She deep-scanned her memories of the past year. There were no recordings of the man. Even more intriguing, when she inquired of the Supervisor, the man’s code was neither Partial nor Full. That doesn’t make sense. How could that be? Darya knew inworld Earth code substrate intimately and had been in frequent contact with the Supervisor since her return. This was a first. She wouldn’t have thought his presence here possible if she weren’t looking right at him.
The man’s concepta and persona were rich; any passerby would have assumed he was a Cybrid inworld instantiation, though Beggar would be an odd role to choose. But she could find no link to the man's outworld trueself. Intent on resolving the mystery, she queried the Supervisor for deeper data. The immediate and succinct response was another dead end: Identity indeterminate. Origin unknown.
Had this been some inworld sim other than the one she’d personally and meticulously designed, she could imagine a few ways this might be possible. Some inworlds were careless, leaving echoes of previous instantiations hanging around for lengthy periods. Sometimes, someone pushed the autonomy and self-referential factors of a Partial’s concepta too far, usually, in some misguided backdoor attempt to force the Instantiation Committees into declaring a Supervisor’s favorite Partial as a Full persona. The inworld she designed had none of that sloppiness. Partials and Fulls were carefully and clearly separated.
So what is this man doing here? And how did he come to be here? She opened her mouth to ask but words failed her. “How…? What…?” She reigned in her thoughts and settled on, “Who are you?”
Though clearly tired, hungry, and dirty, the man looked up at her with bright eyes. He stood, brushed off his clothes, bowed, and held out his hand. “Why, my name is Timothy, madam. And who might you be?”
Despite the passing eons since she’d last encountered it, Darya recognized the accent as the ancient English of a well-bred or well-educated individual. She regarded the gently extended hand leading up to an open and friendly face, smiled, and graciously accepted his greeting.
“Hello, Timothy. My name is Darya. You have such an unusual accent and…aura,” she ventured. “Might I inquire as to how you came to be in New York?” She surprised herself with how easily she slipped into the tone and cadence of the man’s native language.
“Certainly, madam. I followed Mr. Trillian through the closet door from the family dining room.” Timothy replied cheerfully, as if the statement were perfectly self-explanatory. “Might you be able to spare a little change for a man who is, as these fine gentlemen would say, a little down on his luck, my Lady? I mean, madam?”
Darya noticed the slip. ‘My Lady?’ Nobody uses that term here. As she reached into her wallet, she asked, “Where are you from, Timothy?”
“Why DonTon, of course, madam,” he replied.
Her fingers paused on the edge of the wallet. She recognized the name. Everyone working in the Sagittarius A* system knew that sim. It was famously difficult to join, even as a weekend guest. “Casa DonTon?” she queried. He had her full attention again.
“The very same, madam,” he beamed. “Do you know the Chattingbarons?” His eyes were filled with hope.
“I know of them,” she replied cautiously, “though I can’t say we’ve ever met.” She watched Timothy’s rigid posture relax. Beneath the wear and the layers of grime, the remnants of his formal white collar and tie of the Victorian era held him upright. She could not fathom how this…man?...could have crossed into the Alternus sim from DonTon.
“Timothy,” she began.
“Yes?”
“What was your…role in DonTon?”
“My role? Oh, my position.” He stood tall and proudly smoothed his scraggly beard and dusty clothing. “First Footman Timothy at your service, my Lady.” He bowed gallantly as his nearby compatriots guffawed at the sight of a beggar putting on airs.
Darya was astounded. He’s a DonTon Partial! That explains the out of place attire and manner. But how could a Partial make the leap across inworlds? And how would a Partial become a Full instantiation in DonTon? He was a Full, there was no doubt about that.
She ran a quick diagnostic with the Supervisor.
No leaks detected—it reported.
Well, that’s a relief. Darya hadn’t realized she’d tensed up until she felt herself relaxing again. If there’s no leak, how can I explain Timothy’s presence here? Wait. He said he followed someone here. Trillian. That can’t be a coincidence. Surely not Shard Trillian!
“Timothy, you said you followed Mr. Trillian through a closet door.”
“That’s right, my Lady,” he delivered as if Darya were a member of the English landed class of his age. She didn’t feel compelled to correct him for the moment.
“Was Mr. Trillian a guest, then?”
“Oh, quite, my Lady. And as handsome and gracious a guest as anyone could want. Although he didn’t appear to have much taste for the hunt, if I may be so bold, my Lady.”
“Hmm. And he simply opened a closet door and walked into New York, did he?”
“Yes, indeed. I never thought that door went anywhere myself. Clearly, I was mistaken.” He hesitated a moment. “A short while before he went through, there was a strange buzzing sound and I felt some dizziness. I might have thought I fainted and dreamt all this, except how could all of this possibly be a dream?”
“How long have you been in New York?” Darya made an effort to remain calm. A Shard—not just any Shard, but Trillian himself—bypassing her security measures and instantiating in the middle of her inworld sim was not something she looked forward to dealing with. And none of that explained how a Servitor Partial could be standing here in her sim as a full persona.
Timothy looked down at his feet. “I’m not sure I recall exactly, my Lady. I’m afraid some of the times are a bit…unfocused in my memories. I think I’ve been here at least four months, probably more.” He looked around at his nearby friends and called out to one of them. “Bob! How long have we been working in this area?”
“Three months,” the other man growled, and he shuffled a few yards farther down the block, muttering to himself.
Timothy turned back to Darya. “I was here for at least a month before I met Bob. He’s been a true friend in any altercations with the other gentlemen. Before that, the details are a little hazy, I’m afraid. There was the time in the hospital…,” his voice trailed off. He looked troubled and confused.
Darya listened to Timothy with compassion and concern, but she was also relieved. Four months and the Shard hasn’t found us yet, then. Good. “Timothy, I would like to hear the rest of your story bu
t not here. I would like to invite you to stay as a guest at my residence.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, my Lady,” the man protested. He looked down unhappily at his unsatisfactory state. His eyes sank, wistfully.
“I won’t accept ‘No’ for an answer,” Darya responded. “I insist you come with me. My people will ensure your comfort and we can become better acquainted.”
Darya turned and began to walk toward her apartment. Timothy followed dutifully, accompanied by the whistles and cat-calls of his compatriots.
“Ho, ho! You hooked yourself a live one there, matey! Or was it the other way around?” Raucous laughter echoed down the street behind them. Darya didn’t notice.
So, a Shard is loose in Alternus, and I’ve befriended an impossible persona. Interesting day.
27
Leisha wandered the streets of twenty-first century virtual Manhattan, shopping for shoes. It was such a terribly antiquated diversion. She was surprised how much she enjoyed it. With so many important things to do in Alternus, it was a trivial extravagance to spend so much time on one’s appearance. But it was her only hobby.
She was glad Darya hadn’t forced her to adopt the avatar of the body she instantiated into in Alternus. Central bankers in the simulated Earth were clearly not selected for their physical charms, it seemed, but for other skills.
Bad enough that the game, itself, turned out to be so much tedious work. To have been saddled with that old hag’s face and physique would have made it unbearably dreary. The Alternus inworld planet is so much more attractive now that several million of its formerly mundane inhabitants have been overlaid with Cybrid avatars.
Leisha had been working diligently on her appearance over much of the tens of millennia of her relatively young existence. She wanted to be regarded as someone special. Sure, everyone was “beautiful” in his or her inworld avatar but it was a mundane, plastic beauty. Few made a serious study of beauty beyond the façade. Few studied fashion or behavioral nuances like the way a person moved or laughed or spoke.
Many of the characteristics the Cybrid mind found beautiful had their origins in the human brain upon which Cybrid lattices were modeled. Leisha was expert in all of them.
She wanted to stand out, and she did. Not the way Mary did, with her strategic compilation of brash obesity, asymmetrical features, and outlandish embellishments. That was too far. No, Leisha wanted to be known as someone who was mysteriously more elegant, refined, sexy, and fashionable than anyone else among the millions of inworld avatars with whom she might interact over her existence. She wanted to have a beauty people noticed but couldn’t immediately define. It was a fun hobby and had led to thousands of interesting liaisons in Vacationland.
Leisha ditched her small security detail so she could enjoy herself freely, unfettered. She was looking for something unique, something special, to update her Fall wardrobe. Fortunately, her inworld salary as Director of the World Bank/IMF allowed a rather extravagant budget for her latest passion, and Manhattan happened to be the shoe shopping capital of the North American continent.
She’d spent all morning scouring the shops in the Bowery district and was hoping to have her afternoon occupied with the better stores in Greenwich Village. But, first, she was hungry.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that. One frequently ate and enjoyed the exquisite flavors that were available inworld, but you never actually had to eat. On Alternus, eating wasn’t the luxury it was in other simulations; it was a necessity. One’s avatar became noticeably less efficient, even grumpy, if not regularly fed.
Leisha stopped at one of her favorite restaurants in the area, a lovely café that could have been taken right off the streets of Paris. She took a table on the small patio and ordered her favorite, the duck crepe and a glass of Shiraz. The wine arrived and she sat back to savor the complex bouquet.
“Excuse me, you’re Leisha aren’t you?” a stranger said over the cast-iron fence separating the restaurant from the public sidewalk. She looked up at the lean, handsome man with immaculately groomed graying hair.
Caught off guard, she sputtered, “Ah, ah, yes, I am.” She remembered where she was. “Outworld, that is. Here, I’m Natalie Grishwold. Do I know you?”
The man laughed, a casual, comfortable laugh as if between old friends. “Of course, Ms. Grishwold. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable by speaking out of character. Gerhardt told me your inworld name, but he neglected to tell me how stunning you are. The pictures from your official appearances don’t do you justice.”
Leisha relaxed and preened for the stranger, happy to let go of the need to keep up her strict, professional inworld persona, however briefly. “You know Gerhardt?”
“Yes. I’m involved in the banking world, as well. He thought we might share some common interests.”
“You don’t say. How intriguing. Where do you work?” Leisha knew most of the important international bankers and had never seen this man before. “Or have you only recently started inworld?”
“Yes, indeed,” he replied. “But long enough to get established. Apparently, I have some small talent in computer security, likely a result of my outworld design work. A few months ago, I was able to find an inworld inhabitant who owns a consulting business in banking systems security. He wasn’t taken yet, so I instantiated into his character. Gerhardt, in his role as Director Campeau, recently hired my services to review the risk profile of some medium-sized state banks. It’s already been great fun, I must say.”
“And did you know Gerhardt…outside?”
“No. I mean, I knew of him, but we always got assigned to different projects. Then again, there’s an awful lot of us involved in the…outside construction. Too many to know personally.”
“That’s true.” Leisha laughed at his oblique reference to the Deplosion Array. There weren’t any official rules prohibiting discussion of the outworld while in an inworld sim. It just wasn’t done, especially not within the more realistic inworlds, of which, Alternus was surely the epitome.
“Would you like to join me? I’ve just ordered some lunch.”
“I would be delighted.” The man scanned the terrace and windows to make sure none of the staff were looking and, with a roguish grin, placed both hands on the fence and vaulted over. He landed gracefully on the patio and bowed with a flourish calculated to garner Leisha’s appreciative applause. As a capping gesture, he lifted her hand to his lips and delivered a gentle kiss more suited to the finer company in Latin Europe than downtown Manhattan.
“My inworld name is Jack Trillian. I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Grishwold.”
“Trillian?” Leisha was immediately cautious. “An interesting name choice.”
“Alum was feeling generous the day I chose it. It’s meant to honor the Shard, whom I respect greatly. And perhaps to reflect my own charming roguishness.” He bowed, but his smile was clearly ironic.
Leisha laughed appreciatively. “Please, do sit down, Mr. Trillian. You’ll embarrass me. I’m trying to avoid attention today.”
Trillian sat, settling into his role. “Thank you. I suppose you must find it difficult escaping unwanted attention, with your position in this troubled world and, doubly so, with your breathtaking beauty.”
“Oh, stop now,” said Leisha. “Behave yourself or I’ll have to un-invite you from my table.”
Trillian smirked. “I beg your pardon. I’ve just come from Casa DonTon, where things are considerably more formal.”
“Ah, DonTon, yes. Is it as pretentious as they say?”
“Positively stodgy, and the Chattingbaron clan is every bit as snobby as advertised. I don’t know that I’d recommend the place, even if you could wrangle one of the rare invitations.”
“And how did you come to be there?”
“Business, sadly. A number of my colleagues outside challenged me to gain an invitation. My inworld honor was at stake, so I had to visit. I am able to confirm that it is, indeed, truly overrated. St
ilted, boring, and stale. Alum should simply abolish it and be done.”
“Is that so? Are you in the habit of giving advice to the Living God?” Leisha held her wineglass tantalizingly near her lips. For a moment, he considered playing this game to its normal conclusion before proceeding to his true business, but only for a moment. It would not come out well if he were to displease Alum by entertaining dalliances ahead of duties.
Trillian caught a waiter’s attention and, without perusing the menu, ordered a French onion soup, small salad, and a glass of Shiraz. The waiter nodded. “Would you like both meals delivered at the same time?”
Leisha replied for them both. “Oui, s’il vous plait.”
Trillian smiled to see the beautiful young woman showing off for him. That she’d have undoubtedly downloaded a number of ancient languages for her international work did not diminish the gesture.
He sipped his wine thoughtfully as they enjoyed the warm sunshine and waited for their meals.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Only one?” Leisha smiled playfully.
“Well one to start the conversation, and we can see where it goes from there.”
“Well, in that case...” Leisha sat up, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and looked attentive.
“Why are we here?”
Leisha burst out laughing. Was he being boldly suggestive or unexpectedly philosophical?
Darya’s group had been grappling with their goals and purpose, both inworld and outworld, in a meeting the previous day. She had not expected the topic to come up so soon in casual conversation.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still chuckling. “That’s not at all what I was expecting.” She wiped her tearing eyes. “Could you clarify the question, please? Do you mean at this café, this inworld sim, or in the larger universe outside?”
Trillian’s eyes twinkled mischievously, imagining other scenarios. “Let’s start with this sim. Gerhardt told me a bit about Earth, I mean Alternus, and how all of you in Darya’s group are pushing for this new Space Program but he didn’t say why.”
