Continue Online The Complete Series

by Stephan Morse

  We parted with a hug.

  I advised Hal Pal to get us home and spent the time flipping through more public videos of the game. Beth had alluded to a lot of customization to the personal interface, so instead of looking for direct footage, I tried to sift through lesser sites. There were a few shaky clips plus deleted comments with messages of web forum bans.

  General information spoke about a few skills. The press release had stated all sorts of abilities from the game could be used in real life. Beth had mentioned her singing and Liz vouched for excessive humming.

  What could I do skill-wise? Dance?

  I laughed aloud, imagining dancing enemies into submission. Classic dance moves from “Thriller” might help me blend in with zombie hordes. I could “Walk Like an Egyptian” through tombs to avoid traps.

  Hal Pal asked me what was so alarmingly humorous. Explaining why I found dancing against monsters in a video game so amusing didn’t register on Hal Pal’s programming though. He pleasantly acknowledged my explanation and informed me how much time was remaining until arriving home. I checked in with my sponsor and informed her that work was giving me a vacation. Her response was vaguely positive and also held an edge of warning. Free time was dangerous for anyone who might relapse. We kept our conversation short, as always.

  Then I was home, hopping through the living room and into my bedroom. Hal Pal didn’t even get a good-bye or orders to take care of our inventory. The AI would do it anyway.

  I stared at the ARC and took a few breaths. Why was the idea of opening this box so exciting? Maybe it was because it was the newest thing to happen in years. An entire world. Worlds even, according to the slip up during the press release. For the sake of argument, and to prevent a total letdown, I tried to access the gift wrapped item from my external Atrium view. It failed to unwrap. Fully diving in was my only solution.

  “Wait,” I muttered.

  Beth had had bracelets on. I jogged back to the van, panting. I wasn’t used to exercise. Maybe getting fit in this game would help me in real life.

  “Hal, do we have any of the EXR-Sevens?”

  “Three pairs. Would you like to test them as well?” Hal Pal inquired.

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “Affirmative, User Legate. Please remember to file a feedback form upon return.”

  My eyes rolled. Hal Pal either didn’t notice my exasperation or chose not to comment. It had before, since the AI had expression recognizing code embedded somewhere in the depths of its scripting. But AI programming was a problem for those greater than me. My polishing skills would be top notch by the end of our eventual takeover. Thoughts of shoe shining and calling robots “Gov” put a hum in my mind.

  Bands went around both wrists. Another set went right above the ankles. Physically, they felt almost intangible. Small lights littered the outside of my sets, showing connectivity. They connected with nerve endings and registered impulses. I lay down and pressed the button. One world drifted away as if passing out. The other came into focus moments later.

  Now I was standing in my virtual Atrium, looking at a package that was entirely too big. This was Christmas come early, and I had the mentality of a five-year-old. Wrapping paper was torn into shreds. False cardboard was ripped and popcorn tossed aside as I dove into the huge box to find my prize.

  There was certainly no cat inside.

  An obsidian business card was my prize. I’d dug through a giant box filled with packing peanuts for this small item? Completely illegible words were scrawled across it.

  I focused on the card and tried to understand the gibberish. Was this handwritten? Tilting the card revealed an ink-like sheen. Considering this was digital, the effect was kind of amazing. There were very definite letters, but none looked normal. They had strange bends and twists in unexpected places. This was likely an actual language, but identifying which one was beyond me.

  “ARC?”

  “User Legate. Awaiting request.”

  The ARC registered vocal commands issued while logged in. It could do text as well, popping up like Beth’s in-game display had. I’d turned off most of those options when I first got the ARC.

  “Translate this?” I waved the card.

  “Command not executable.”

  “Huh?” I shook my head. But “huh” was not a recognized keyword to the machine.

  My mind boggled at the computer’s denial. Either this wasn’t something that could be translated or maybe it was encrypted. “Repeat?”

  “Command not executable.”

  “Smug machine,” I muttered. Luckily it didn’t have an AI like Hal Pal did.

  I flipped over the card again. The design was a deep obsidian with golden lettering that looked almost liquid. Light from the desk lamp reflected off it on to one side of my bed. I didn’t have a lamp there in real life—this was an adaptation from the Atrium.

  “Any hints?” I asked the ARC interface.

  “Negative, User Legate.”

  I lifted the box and spilled out everything. I scattered the packing material. The box was torn further, turned inside out, thrown to one side of the room. Now I was upset. All that build-up, all that interest and play time for a card that wasn’t understandable.

  I ignored the blinking phone which meant I had a message. My niece’s name flashed on the box, she probably wanted to know if I received the game. From one side of the room to the other went the path of virtual Styrofoam as I paced. Analyzing the packing peanuts for a pattern or other hints didn’t help me either. They looked normal and real. Packing peanuts had mostly been done away with over five years ago due to recycling concerns. This reminded me of an old test—how to keep an idiot busy. The card would read “turn over” and have the exact same words on the backside. I flipped the card over. The backside was blank, which meant at least I was being spared that indignity.

  I logged out and stormed around my tiny house in frustration. Eventually, I logged back into the Atrium and pondered what to do. Time wasn’t condensed at this stage of the ARC. That feature was only available in certain programs.

  Finally, I noticed something odd. There was a door exiting my Atrium that hadn’t been there before. More blinks ensued as I struggled to recall the last time there had been a new installation on my ARC. Most of the programs I had used one exit point. For me, that exit point was tied to my dance program. Sports programs had never interested me, and I wasn’t one of those teenagers who felt the need to learn a martial art.

  Wait.

  The left door was lit up. My curiosity brimmed as I neared the door and ventured a peek inside. This was where my dance program was. The right door was new but completely dark. Why had the dance program initialized? Was someone else in my Atrium?

  I waved my hands and checked out the Internet connections. No visitors were inside. The only people who ever accessed it were family, and Beth was too busy murdering monsters in the very game I had hoped to be playing by now.

  “Hello?” I questioned.

  Swing music was clearly playing through the speakers. It was mostly stuff from seventy years ago, which was an era that had belonged to my great-grandparents. Long ago, I’d bought that program and a few others to expand my dance skills into more genres. Never before had this program started without a command. I walked inside with my mystery card in one hand. The lights were up high, my clothes straight out of a black-and-white movie. It sounded like there was a live band playing nearby.

  The image of my computer-generated fiancée dressed in a frilly piece of clothing made me smile. That wasn’t like her at all. She’d worn a sundress at most and even those were rare. She waved as we made eye contact. That was new. Maybe there had been a patch without my knowledge. The ARC was good at doing that when I looked away for too long. I waved back.

  She held out a hand. I shrugged, put the card in a pocket and danced. Happily, I put the confusing mystery out of my mind for a bit. The song changed to something brisker. Soon I was swinging her around in spins
, dips, and other moves practiced over endless lonely hours. Then our dance was something slower. We danced close. Her head lay against my chest, rocking to the music of another century.

  “I miss you,” I whispered, trying not to feel wounded. Dancing like this made me feel as though she was still with me. Losing my sense of place was too easy. Some mornings I woke up thinking the whole terrible event had been a dream.

  “I know, Grant.” Her whisper sounded exactly like every memory that had haunted me over the years.

  I pulled away in confusion. This program never spoke back. It wasn’t designed to. It couldn’t. I had uttered that confession time and time again over the years and never once heard anything in response. The computerized image of my fiancée smiled, then looked at the doorway a program shouldn’t realize was there. A heartbeat later, she went still, completely lifeless and dulled in color.

  “Babe?” Today was not my day. This was one emotional sledgehammer after another.

  Crashing came through the doorway from back in my Atrium. Then something like a metal pan spinning to a slow stop. Next was glass hitting the floor and shattering. I backed up slowly toward the door behind me while staring at the stilled image of my fiancée. Music dimmed from a signal I never sent.

  Something wonky was going on.

  At the door, I turned around and tried to put her haunting portrayal behind me. To move forward and face the next problem instead of becoming stuck as I had in the past. That was what my last year of therapy had focused on. Move forward, plan accordingly, don’t get stuck in the mire behind.

  My Atrium, a virtual replication of my house, was an even bigger mess than it had been. Now way more than packing peanuts was scattered across the floor. Items had been knocked off of shelves and dishes splayed all over. Normally all of this was kept in perfect order. Default Atrium programming didn’t allow broken glass.

  I had no clue where to even find a broom and dustpan. A garbage bin was easy. The Atrium had one for programs you no longer wanted. Users could pull a program down from the shelf and toss it away. Digital confirmation of an action time-honored among computers. I tried to use pieces of cardboard to clean up the shattered glass, but it went terribly.

  This place couldn’t stay messy like this though. Otherwise, once I logged in, the Atrium might try to subject me to the simulated pain of stepping on shards of glass.

  That should have been beyond the Atrium’s programming, but here I was cleaning up shattered dishes after hearing a computer program talk when it wasn’t programmed to. Worse, the computer had used a near-perfect replica of her voice.

  “ARC.”

  “Awaiting input.”

  “Can you replay what happened here?”

  “Negative.” There was even an error bonk of noise. “New program interference detected. Alternate patterns have been input. Scans show all levels of local software have been impacted.”

  “I only have one piece of software,” I muttered. Everything else had been deleted except for a few house programs.

  My ARC was connected to the van, which had Hal Pal and a few simulated board games. Those were on a separate network, thankfully. Hal Pal’s programming was so insanely far beyond me that the thought of changing it was frightening.

  “Is it a virus?” Worry flooded me as the thought occurred far too late.

  “Scans confirm this is not the work of a virus.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  “System update?” Unexpected patching might have added new features. To my knowledge, the ARC wasn’t scheduled for any overhauls soon.

  “Negative.” The machine response sounded stiff.

  “When did this start?”

  “Recordings indicate all changes occurred after contact with the card in your pocket.”

  That was pretty specific. ARC was basically admitting that whatever had been installed by the box was at fault, without telling me how long this had been going on or what exactly had changed. I checked the clock. The Atrium had been loaded for maybe thirty minutes. So far I had torn open a box, danced with my fiancée, and been subjected to an unexplained mess.

  I grabbed water and a towel from my mostly unused hot tub program. Finally, I had a use for last year’s performance award. The towel was curled around a mess of broken glass, and I slowly gathered everything up. Without a real broom, this was as close as I would get.

  “ARC.”

  “Awaiting input.”

  Maybe the machine could be given a new voice. An actor or someone popular might spice it up. I could look up sports commentators.

  “How much does a broom program cost?” I said.

  “Two dollars, plus taxes.”

  Not worth it yet. Maybe later I would download one. I brushed another pile of glass off to the side with my rolled up towel and took a sip of the water. It had come from a hose spigot outside with the hot tub. Luckily digital water had no chance of corruption and tasted mountain fresh. I inspected the counter next. Creamer typically stayed neat and in order on the counter. Now they were scattered all over, and some were clearly torn open and leaking. I tried to mop it up with the towel and didn’t get very far.

  Something yawned behind me. A sound I vaguely remembered from Sniffles, my cat. The half meow mixed with a snapping of jaws. Maybe the box had been a cat program?

  I turned slowly and looked.

  That was no cat.

  It was maybe half the size of one. Tiny and calm while sitting in the second doorway. I raised an eyebrow. It tilted an oddly shaped head to one side. Large haunches twisted under its back. It was a long line of black, almost as deep as the obsidian card, broken up by the same gold as the lettering. Wait a minute. That creature may have looked like a cat. It may have been sitting like one. But it had leather wings on its back.

  “Huh?” I questioned out loud.

  The creature, which had to be a pet-sized dragon, turned and lazily went into the other room. I looked at the barely contained mess in my Atrium. Had that tiny dragon messed up my room? There was no longer a doubt in my mind. This was certainly tied to Continue Online.

  I walked into the second door and onward toward mystery.

  Inside, the room was dark. There was a lot more depth here than my dance program, not that I could see ten feet from the door. This place had a feeling of vastness that could swallow someone whole. I looked down and could see a little bit of my surroundings thanks to the Atrium’s ambient lighting. My head turned to the area behind me and the doorway was plainly in sight. Everything around it faded off into black.

  Okay. Well, this wasn’t real. My body was sitting in a device hooked up with every safety feature a paranoid human could envision. Exploration into an abyss wouldn’t be the end of my life.

  This was very neat.

  Forward wasn’t clear. There was nothing to put my hands on. No wall, no objects along the startlingly smooth floor. Atrium me had shoes that made a slight clomp with each step. I clutched the half-full glass and prepared to be scared by some jump scene. Finally, after minutes of slightly hesitant walking, an odd lack of frightening monsters, and saying “echo” over and over, I found something. A pillar jutted out of the floor, surrounded by far-too-dramatic light. The illumination had simply appeared as I turned around looking for signs of where to go next.

  Next to the pillar, at the shadow’s edge, was that tiny black dragon thing that had likely destroyed my front room. It yawned again with a snap of its jaws. Then it proceeded to clean its scales with a disturbingly pink tongue. Worse still, steam billowed out of its mouth, speaking of possible fire. Dragons were iconic creatures when it came to fantasy. Continue Online likely had a few. This little one was a wacky thing to be escorted by. Lured, actually, was a better description.

  The small creature clearly observed me, tilting its head just right in order to keep cleaning and have me in sight. I walked closer to the marble column which reminded me of an old Greek piece. Broken edges across the t
op gave it an uneven surface. Upon that lay a giant book.

  “Well. That’s different.” I said.

  Speech startled the small creature. It leapt up on top of the pillar, claws digging into the book and almost kicking from strain as it positioned itself. The tiny dragon thing huffed and let out a sputter of flame off toward an empty space behind the pillar. The fire failed to truly get going. The tiny dragon tilted its long ears back in irritation and looked at me. The expression on its face was an almost wry embarrassment.

  “It’s okay.” I tried to smile reassuringly.

  The creature snapped its head between looking at me and the empty space, then resumed attempts to start up a good roar of fire. Something in its throat seemed to be causing the dragon to sputter like a failing lawnmower. I thought I knew what was causing the problem. The little devil had been in my virtual creamer. I used the digital coffee additive to get the taste without needing to stock my house in reality.

  “Here. Try some water.”

  I set down the half-full glass and backed up a few steps.

  The creature looked at me, down at the glass, cocked one ear up almost like a confused puppy, then leapt over the glass.

  “Heh. Aren’t you something.” At least I was smiling. That was an improvement over the emotional roller coaster.

  My tiny dragon buddy used a claw to knock over the glass and proceeded to slurp up all the spilled water. I chuckled more but tried not to move too quickly.

  “Better?” I asked.

  The small thing looked at me momentarily before diving for the pillar and once again sucking in air. Fire spiraled outward and seemed to splash into something. An engraved panel was forming where the flames sizzled. Its last few puffs were almost completely devoid of fire. The dragon creature was struggling and basically blowing hot air.

  Once completed, the dragon thing curled up at the column’s base and seemed to go to sleep instantly. I looked at the floating object. Words were slowly coming to life—another set of gold letters, like the card and the dragon’s crest, almost wet-looking.