Continue Online The Complete Series

by Stephan Morse

  No, someone out there must be monitoring them for possible issues. There were controls in place for exactly that sort of thing. We wouldn’t build something without an ability to prevent ourselves from being harmed.

  Unless humanity was stupid.

  “Please enjoy yourself, User Legate. We will be available to converse with whenever you are ready,” Hal Pal said. One arm waved, then the lights inside it shut off.

  I got out of the van and stood in the doorway to my garage, staring blankly for a long time.

  I did not want to be the man stuck in the middle of a giant human-versus-robot war. Then again, I had an ability called [NPC Conspiracy]. Maybe the AIs thought the sides had been picked.

  Xin Yu was in there with them. I shuddered and kept shaking for a solid minute. One arm pressed against the wall kept me from falling over. Using that guidance, I managed to get through my nightly routine.

  My work jumpsuit came off and went into a washing machine. A shower cleaned off the grime. I brushed my teeth and put on underclothes. Tonight, I would probably sweat some more because of the EXR-Sevens. Their glowing bands sat around my wrists and ankles.

  I lay down in the ARC device and tried not to feel a thread of worry. Maybe Liz had been onto something. Maybe the Voices were playing with me not because Continue Online had been designed to do so, but because something with greater depth had happened.

  My mind put together a list of questions to ask Hal Pal. If need be, one of my two uses for [NPC Conspiracy] could be utilized to pry something out of the AI. Honestly though, Hal Pal would probably answer my questions outright.

  It felt less guarded with me than ninety-eight percent of the human population? That number was insane.

  A sharp pain in my lip showed how distracted the thinking made me. I licked the inside a few times and tasted the copper of blood. The wound ceased bleeding after a couple of minutes.

  My biggest problem was thinking too much about anything. Each action had to be weighed and planned ahead of time. That had been the plus side of my dance program. Each night, I memorized and then tested new planned moves. Everything had rhythms, a time to move and a time to sit still. Even combat in Continue Online followed a pattern. Conversing with people while on the job often felt scripted—not bad, just a certain flow to every encounter.

  Dealing with Hal Pal certainly had not followed a script. I needed time to figure out what questions would be of use, and how much I cared about the answers.

  Half a dozen ill-formed questions came to mind. Xin would have been able to react much faster. She was decisive, to the point, ready to handle anything. For years, she’d tried to break me of overthinking and had failed.

  “ARC, log me in,” I said.

  Vision of reality faded away, and my mind sank into the machine’s feedback system. The Atrium came into view, back to the recreation of my small two-room home.

  “Load Advance Online.”

  I looked at the price of Hal Pal’s game offering for a few minutes, then shrugged. Money didn’t matter. Without the drive of Xin’s letters, even Continue had lost some pull. If nothing else, this game would serve as a distraction.

  I pressed Buy, and the image shimmered. Cash register noises played through the Atrium, and a package materialized in one hand. This felt a little like being lead around by the nose though. Another question went onto the pile—what exactly would an AI, any of them, gain by pushing me to play video games?

  That one stumped me. Other than the Jester figure from Continue Online asking me if I could kill someone, playing games seemed relatively harmless. At least, it had been until Requiem Mass—or Matthew, in the real world—got involved.

  My head tilted back to stare at the ceiling of my Atrium. Miz Riley wanted reports on the AIs of Continue Online, but she’d never mentioned real world ones. Hal Pal wasn’t even directly created by Trillium; it was done by an overseas company.

  “Lasers do sound neat.” My face wrinkled to one side in thought. The trailer had been kind of awe-inspiring.

  I threw the game box at one wall. Now there were three doors out of my Atrium. The dance program, which sat there dimly. Continue Online’s passage, which still refused entry with Caution and Keep Out tape strung across it. Then this new game, a title that sounded suspiciously like Continue Online.

  “Wait a minute,” I muttered. “ARC, what’s the release date on this program?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “After Continue Online?” I asked. The competition in video game land had died off after Continue Online’s release. They released updates to currently existing games, new mods or that kind of stuff, but nothing on the same level.

  “Affirmative,” the ARC said.

  “Who was the development company for this?”

  “A.I. Dreams.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I muttered again.

  Hal Pal was involved in this somehow. That name couldn’t be a coincidence. Did it mean anything? I couldn’t see how since this game was full of spaceships that looked like fancy airplanes.

  “Negative, User Legate,” my capsule’s voice said.

  I stared at the new doorway and wondered exactly how valuable this would be to me. Continue Online had drawn me in from the get-go. Nothing else could compare. Still, Hal Pal had said playing something else might help me seem less invested in Continue’s world.

  “Do they have any relation to Trillium? Parent company, past employees, college roommates, anything?” There had to be more of a connection than a suspicious suggestion by my work companion.

  An hourglass timer appeared in front of me, tipping over repeatedly as the machine searched. Finally, the small image of sand stopped trickling and turned into an exclamation point.

  “Association confirmed. Four employees within A.I. Dreams worked for Trillium Inc. six years ago. They quit and formed a studio that changed to an independent group after the ARC was developed,” the ARC said.

  What exactly was going on? My life might amount to being herded in one direction by a machine, which felt like a paranoid way to look at things. We’d worked together for around two years. The machine had been vetted, fully cleared for all levels of human interaction, and no reports had ever been made citing any danger.

  Hal Pal hadn’t lied to me, not once. Maybe my mistrust obstructed a simple truth. Maybe Hal Pal was genuinely worried about me as a person and wanted to help in its strange sort of way. First it threw me into Continue Online, which took a turn for the weird. Now that one route had failed, it tried to lead me into another.

  But why was this other game made by people from Trillium?

  Whatever. I could play the game, and provided no Voices showed up in outer space, then it could be a coincidence. Though seeing James in space, wearing evil-looking red armor, might be funny.

  I walked through the doorway.

  Lights whooshed by. A sensation of huge objects moving nearby came through. Stars in the distance were spinning into place on a backdrop of bluish black. It amazed me once more how the ARC could project feelings into my awareness.

  Ten, twenty, finally hundreds of stars blasted into different locations. A huge amount swirled together in a purple haze, representing a galaxy. The picture flattened abruptly and a grid pattern formed, separating out the different sections of space.

  I walked around, and the projection shifted slightly to match my new position. After a while, there was a small pop of light and one red arrow bobbed. Words floated above it.

  You are here

  The words sat there calmly. I felt as if this was a mall display telling me how to navigate the stores. Soon a small box would pop up to tell me which path went to the pants section. Not that many stores stocked clothes anymore.

  I reached out, and the stars rushed to a new position. Everything appeared closer than it was before. Now there were eight bobbing arrows in different locations across the star field. I pressed one of the new ones, and a figure faded in nearby. It was a giant mountain-lo
oking man with pitch-black skin. He looked to be made of obsidian.

  I moved a bit, and the figure moved. My arms went up in a poor flex, and the black-skinned man flexed as well. It amused me enough to keep moving around and making the creature adopt new poses. One arm went out, both feet up on tiptoes, the other one behind. I did a bow with both arms out to either side. The large creature mirroring me tried to keep up but stumbled a bit. I glanced at it in suspicion, and the black-skinned man pointed toward a floating box nearby.

  Race: [Behemoth]

  Details: [Behemoth]s are larger than most other races in the Alliance. The first one is said to have been birthed from a mountain that aged for so long it grew sentient and gave birth.

  [Behemoth]s are unique as they can survive in the vacuum of space without a suit by using internal oxygen pockets. They also suffer penalties when subjected to excessive moisture. Most are craft-oriented and rarely value combat due to slow reactions. They may fumble complex body movements that rely on speed.

  “Sorry,” I said after reading that.

  A wall of pluses and minuses to various skills was below the description. I ignored the plus marks that floated next to terms for height, weight, and all the extra little statistics.

  I waved good-bye. My mirror waved back casually. The arrows indicated I had plenty of races to look at. It seemed like this game launched me straight into a character-creation system.

  The next race was a sort of bug creature called [Cricket]. They looked just human enough to be attractive, but their sides were strangely smooth-looking. Having an antenna wouldn’t work very well for me at all. I skipped it and moved on.

  My next option happened to be extremely short. A small creature called [Teeny], that looked like a heavy-hipped onion, glared at me. I blinked; it blinked. I lifted one foot, and my little male mirror lifted his leg. This one responded very well to the poses. I had to be careful though, because he stood on a wooden bench.

  Not for me either. Maybe if I got through creation, I could explore this world more. Besides, I had hours to kill tonight before needing to worry about work tomorrow. If this entertained me enough, I could take the weekend off.

  The [Behemoth] race seemed too ponderous for me, even if they did crafting. Short people or bug-like guys felt odd. The fourth choice was straight humans, but I bypassed them.

  By the fifth race, I noticed a small percentage marker by each race. A note next to it stated “player population.” Most people seemed to choose humans. That made sense. Playing as another species in a virtual reality would be outright weird to stick with.

  Sixth was a race of space elves. Seventh was a group that looked human but were all sorts of beefed up. Their detail window claimed to be a connection of gods. There were no openings in that grouping though. I guessed they had a player cap of some sort.

  Finally, the eighth race struck my fancy. I laughed a bit while shaking my head. They looked like an advanced version of Hal Pal. They wore armor, held guns, and seemed to come with the lowest player population. After all, who would want to play as the computer race in an outer space game?

  Race: [Mechanoid]

  Details: The [Mechanoid]s spawned from Old Earth thousands of years ago. Their grouping is run without ranks or leaders. Each [Mechanoid] is responsible for contributing to the whole to whatever extent they are able.

  [Mechanoid]s receive bonuses to all actions requiring fine motor skills. However, they are often unable to begin a new task until the old one is finished. A single one of these is often no threat, where a group is far more dangerous due to a division of labor.

  A small box floated nearby, asking if I wanted to choose this species. A few more detailed bits of information listed all the pros and cons, but none of that mattered to me right now. After all, my main reason for even playing this was to appear sane for Liz. Putting myself in Hal Pal’s shoes, however vaguely a computer game might try to fill them, would be a bonus.

  “Why not?” I pressed Yes, and the stars around me zoomed in once more.

  Session Forty-Two — Dirty Job

  Pressing Yes made the ARC’s visual feedback go black. Things rocked, and my insides felt as if they were being warped across the galaxy. At least, I assumed that was an apt analogy for a space game that put its user through simulated G-force pulls. Really, it just made me sick.

  Details slowly fuzzed in and spots faded. My resulting vision was a lovely rendition of metallic-looking toes. Not only mine but another three sets nearby. The floor under our collective feet looked absurdly smooth and clean.

  My neck rocked gently and tried to lift a sluggish head. It took a while before anything responded correctly. An elbow jerked wildly and banged into something. One toe tapped. Finally, I managed to pull my eyesight up to at least chest level.

  “Welcome to consciousness, new unit,” one of the other creatures said.

  All three looked slightly different from the [Mechanoid] preview.

  I wondered exactly what I’d signed up for. Maybe Hal Pal had bolted me to a chair during my sleep and performed “upgrades” while calmly stating resistance is futile. Or an army of robots got together and chanted “one of us” over my reconfigured corpse.

  No, there were a few menu icons visible off to either side.

  “ARC?” I said.

  “Awaiting input,” it responded.

  None of the other [Mechanoid]s responded. It seemed as though I was safe inside a virtual reality.

  “Cancel input,” I said to the ARC.

  “How would you like to identify, new unit?” one of the NPC [Mechanoid]s nearby asked.

  “Hermes,” I muttered. This time James, wait—these new robots—couldn’t pester me about not having a good character name. I had one and planned to stick with it.

  “Recently created consciousness self-identified as Hermes,” one of the [Mechanoid]s said. It looked vaguely female, but sleek. Clothing was minimal of course. Similar to how an old-fashioned android might be perceived. She had strips of red that might have been status lights or wiring lining the sides of her neck.

  “Welcome, Brother Hermes. Are you ready for work?” That one looked male and was green.

  I hadn’t picked a color. Maybe I could do a cool black in token remembrance of my weapon [Morrigu’s Gift] and [Wild Bill]’s hat. “Fire away, Jeeves.”

  “This unit is known as Iron.” The taller unit in the middle had a dull sheen of metal instead of red or green laces. He, I guessed, pointed toward the others. “This is Ruby, and Emerald.”

  “Hello,” I said while I tested the new virtual body.

  The mineral-named trio backed up and allowed me room to function.

  “Are you ready for work?” the green male, Emerald, said. He hunched a little, which made his shoulders sit lower than Ruby’s. Both of them were far shorter than Iron.

  “Where are we?” Character-creation processes were weird. At least this was a bit less abrupt than Continue Online’s world, with all their trials and stuff.

  “You are aboard the Corvette Wayfarer Seven. We are en route to a penal colony as part of our transportation duties,” Ruby answered. Her voice carried an extra harmonic that normal people didn’t have. It managed to sound both sweet and scratchy at the same time.

  “What happened to the first six?” My voice wasn’t much better. I felt as if my words were echoing back. The sensation felt similar to stereo feedback, which made me wince. It might have been the lack of complete control over my body.

  “The prior Wayfarers have all been marked as inactive,” Emerald answered with a slight head tilt.

  “Why?”

  “A loss of sustainability after combat against the Demi-Human race,” Iron answered. Its—his—voice carried an extra tone as well, a deep roll that ran alongside the scratchiness. It felt as though these robots were trying to mimic two different people at the same time.

  “Oh,” I said.

  They didn’t appear offended by my less-than-robotic way of phrasing things.
Nearby, another unit came online. The units Iron and Ruby went over and prepared to greet another new player.

  “Can I get a list of jobs?” I hadn’t played a game with simple quests in forever. Continue Online didn’t handle quests the same way any game from my teenage years might have. It was too complex and involved.

  “I will provide you a list of introductory tasks. Please complete any you can,” Emerald said. His—I guessed it was a he—face showed far more depth of expression than Hal Pal’s. It felt a bit more real.

  “Thank you,” I responded.

  “You are welcome, Unit Hermes. Please excel in your contributions to the Consortium.” The robot nodded with a friendly smile.

  “Consortium?”

  Hal Pal had referred to itself as part of a Consortium of AIs. Working so closely with an AI in the real world was part of why I’d picked this race to begin with. It might give me insight on how to deal with its statements.

  I mean, Hal Pal was the one who’d gotten me into Continue Online? How bizarre! No, this was utterly, beyond any shadow of a doubt, odd. Some neatness mixed in with the confusion.

  “That is the name of our race upon this vessel. We are all Consortium members of the Corvette Wayfarer Seven,” he answered my half-phrased question.

  “That’s a lot of words.”

  Emerald continued, “Indeed. Your awareness interface will display a small symbol for each member of our Consortium. If you have any questions, please inquire with any available unit.”

  I rather enjoyed how the machine explained all the bars and icons on my screen. With Continue Online, they were mysteries or only half explained.

  Part of me felt unhappy about it as well. Maybe it was the removal of self-discovery that made it feel kind of dull. Or the fact that my arms still didn’t work right. There was no pain, just a lack of response and a small progress bar to one side.

  Attention unit identified as Hermes!

  Unit Synchronization is in progress. Functionality limited. Please continue attempting interface with your new shell.