Psychotrope

by Lisa Smedman

  Shuddering, Timea stood up. She looked back over her shoulder, waiting for the beast to emerge from the shadowed end of the tunnel-like hallway. In the opposite direction, the bright light somehow seemed equally menacing.

  The walls on either side of her were painted a faded white and were covered with graffiti. None of the graffiti was legible—the tags were meaningless scrawls and the Pictures were just smears of paint. Dull reds and blacks and blues, like the ink in a faded tattoo.

  Timea tried touching one of the pictures, thinking it might be an icon. It looked vaguely erotic, the outside suggesting a couple embracing in a tight clinch.

  Shame. She was disgusting, dirty. They all knew what she had done. They'd watched in revulsion while she did this to him, looked on in disgust while she took him into her—

  Timea yanked her hand away. The wash of raw emotion left her shaking. It was like a simsense recording in which only the emotive track remained. Sex had never been like that for her. This had to have come from some twisted porn upload.

  She shivered as she looked closer at the other kons on the walls. The smears of paint now looked frightening, dangerous. Some suggested acts of violence, others had the outlines of people cringing in fear or doubling over in pain. Timea's eyes narrowed. Had the kids at her clinic blundered into this place and touched one of these emotive icons? Was that why they had started screaming? If so, where were they now?

  The hallway was empty except for Timea. Doors lined the walls on either side. Each was inset with a tiny pane of glass that was reinforced with crisscrossing wires. Timea stood on her toes and peered in through one of the windows, but as soon as her eyes came level with the window, it shimmered and became a mirror.

  She glanced at her own reflection, wishing now that she had chosen a different persona icon. The kids at the clinic knew what she looked like online, but in their terrified state they were unlikely to recognize her as a friend. The sallow skin, the discolored bandages that hung from her forearms like funeral wrappings, the elaborate Egyptian style headdress with its grinning jackal head—none of these would inspire confidence or reassurance now. The kids would probably run in terror from the desiccated mummy that was Timea's online persona.

  The door had a handle—probably the access node for whatever system or host connected to this one.

  Timea tried it, but the handle did not turn. The window cleared, however.

  Peering inside, Timea saw what looked like the virtualscape of the teaching program that came with Renraku's MatrixPal cyberdeck. Brightly colored spheres, rectangular blocks, hexagons, and pyramids—all UMS icons for the various forms of node to be found on the Matrix—rotated gently in a vast room. Other icons represented the most commonly used system operations and utilities: a cartoonish hollow glove with pointing finger for log on/log off operations; an old-fashioned hardcopy book and quill pen for read/write and download/upload; a digital compass for locate file or host operations.

  Floating in the air amid the icons was a silver-skinned, hairless human. Its naked, metallic skin was utterly featureless and Timea could not tell if it were male or female. Its knees were drawn up into its chest and its arms were wrapped around them. Its head was tucked into its chest, concealing the face. It was the standard UMS icon for a decker's persona except for one detail. Instead of being metallic like the rest of the body, the head was made of clear glass. A scene was being projected inside it, like a hologram inside a decorative glass sphere. It was difficult to make out details from this angle, but from what Timea could see, the scene involved a crashing VTOL and exploding nukes. The images of destruction strobed back and forth, every now and then juxtaposed against the closeup of a bearded dwarf's screaming face. The holo looked like the preview for some sort of action simsense experience.

  Timea released the doorknob and the window mirrored over.

  She tried a dozen more doors, getting increasingly anxious as she saw that none of the children from her clinic were in any of the rooms. Where were they? Each of the windows gave a view much like the first: a decker surrounded by icons. In each case the persona's transparent head held an animated hologram.

  Some showed scenes of family life—what looked like bad home trideo—while others were as action-packed and abstract as the first. All were vaguely disquieting, but Timea couldn't put her finger on why they made her feel that way.

  She continued jogging from door to door and peering into rooms, but couldn't see any of the clinic kids.

  Just deckers with standardized UMS icons. If the kids weren't here, then where were they? There had to be a way out of this host.

  Timea had almost given up when she found an unlocked door. When she touched the handle it turned slightly, and when she peered in through the window she saw only the UMS node and utility icons—not the decker she had come to expect. She used an analyze utility to check the handle for IC, saw that it was clean, then activated her deception utility. Glittering gold dust shimmered into existence on her skin and mummy bandages, and a golden mask settled into place over her eyes. She turned the handle—and suddenly found herself inside the room. The door had disappeared behind her and none of the walls held an exit—it seemed the only way out was through one of the icons that bobbed gently in front of her.

  Welcome, said a soft, feminine voice with a hint of an Asian accent. Timea looked around but could not see the speaker. Perhaps this system's audio programming didn't include a visual component to go with it.

  Are you ready to begin your lesson?

  Timea ignored the voice. Her deception program would handle whatever programming was activated next, allowing her to blend into the background of this system. She touched one of the rectangular blocks—a system access node.

  But the familiar rush of movement didn't happen. The node seemed to be inoperative. Frowning, she walked to another node and touched it instead. Nothing.

  Timea held out her hand and materialized a brilliant turquoise scarab beetle on her palm. She set it down and waited expectantly for it to scuttle away, but the beetle ran around and around in circles, refusing to set out in any specific direction. Altering its programming slightly, she keyed the browse utility in on a number of LTG addresses, but the beetle couldn't seem to get a fix on any of them. Frustrated, she at last input the address of the Shelbramat Free Computer Clinic. The program should at least be able to lock on to her own jackpoint. But it couldn't even do that.

  Instead it gave a shrill chirrup and flipped over on its back. It lay there motionless, legs in the air, then dissolved into a puddle of turquoise pixels.

  "Drek," Timea whispered. "I really am hooped."

  The soft Asian voice was still speaking in the background. . . .and this is a datastore, it explained patiently. A flowing red cube appeared just in front of Timea's face, locking her line of sight. Veins of gold ran through its marbled surface. It contains useful information. Can you access it?

  Timea angrily batted the cube aside. It flew across the room and smashed into a sphere-shaped icon, sending the slave module ricocheting off a wall. Timea tried to move forward, then cried out as pain exploded in her hand and shot up her arm in a burning wave.

  You're not trying hard enough, the voice scolded. The red cube appeared where it had been, a few centimeters in front of her face. Timea moved to side-step it, but the node tagged along with her, instantly materializing in front of her even when she ducked down suddenly or dodged to one side.

  Concentrate on what you want the form to look like, the voice continued. The node is trapped with blaster IC, which is why your hand is hurting. You will have to crash the IC first. To begin the complex form, think about something big and destructive. The bigger you imagine it, the more powerful it will be. . .

  Timea stared at her hand while the voice droned on. Her skin was red and raw, covered in weeping blisters. The gold dusting of the deception program had been burned completely away, leaving her hand and fingers bare.

  "Blaster IC, huh?" she murmured to hersel
f. "Felt like fraggin' black IC to me."

  Blaster IC was dangerous—but only to a cyberdeck. It was a proactive intrusion countermeasure that waited for the decker to try to access a node, then engaged her in combat. At worst, it would slag a deck's MPCP. But that shouldn't hurt. Not like this.

  Timea resisted the urge to suck on her burned fingers. She told herself that the injury wasn't real—that this was just some ultra-high-rez program that was using simsense to simulate pain. Funny, though, that she couldn't feel her meat bod. She should have at least had a dull awareness of whether she was sitting or standing, whether she was fresh or tired. But there was nothing. Just the throbbing ache of her burned hand.

  The voice had paused, as if waiting. Now it took on a faintly menacing tone. If you don't create a complex form you will be punished. Crash the blaster IC. Now!

  "I don't have a crash utility," Timea said. She felt a little foolish, talking to thin air. "I don't want to run this program today. I just want to find my kids and get the frag out of here."

  For a moment there was only silence as the red cube bobbed gently in front of Timea. Then the voice came back. You have failed a second time to create a complex form. You are a bad girl. You must be punished.

  "What the frag is a complex for—"

  One of the dangling bits of bandage on her arm sprouted a tiny green flame. Timea tried to smack it out, but like a relentless fuse the fire spread rapidly up to her arm. As it reached bare skin, she screamed in agony. Within a nanosecond, flames covered every centimeter of her body. The smell of burning cloth and hair filled her nostrils as her flesh began to sizzle and pop. Pain shot through her body, nearly doubling her over.

  She held her arms out from her sides, trying to avoid the additional pain of burning flesh rubbing against burning flesh.

  Frantic in her agony, she tried to activate her mirrors' utility. She was barely able to concentrate through the haze of pain, but somehow she got it up and running. A mirror image of her persona, complete with mummy wrappings and headdress, appeared on the opposite side of the red cube. It instantly burst into flames and began to scream—and the pain Timea had been experiencing stopped. Her skin still tingled and itched, but the absence of pain was an overwhelming relief. She sagged to her knees, dimly aware that the decoy she had created was doing the same thing. A halo of blue-white fire engulfed it, washing Timea with its heat.

  That was an interesting form you created, the voice said. But it needs some modifications. How about this?

  The gold-veined cube that had been blocking her line of sight blinked out of existence. Timea looked up.

  The icon her mirrors utility had created had changed. It was male now, younger and more human-looking.

  Then she reeled back in horror as she recognized her brother's face.

  "Nate!" she screamed. "Oh, spirits, no!"

  As the flames winked out, the figure collapsed to the ground, a charred and smoking ruin. Smooth brown skin had ruptured from the heat like an overcooked slab of meat; steam rose from the reddened crevices. Melted chunks of track suit stuck to the body like obscene scabs. The pinky ring she had made for her brother from a soda tab was a melted blob of slag on his bubbled finger. Nathaniel's head was turned, and his oozing, sightless eyes stared up at Timea accusingly.

  The drive-by fireballing had been all her fault. If she hadn't pissed off the go-ganger by laughing when he dumped his bike, Nathaniel would still have been alive today. . .

  Timea jammed her hands over her eyes, shutting out the sight of her brother's dead body. Tears poured down her cheeks. She knew that this was only a virtual creation of some twisted decker's mind—one who was somehow using her own memories against her. That this was only simsense. But that didn't stop it from hurting. And what she was feeling right now was worse than the physical pain of the fire. Drekloads worse.

  "Stop it," she begged in a hoarse whisper. "Please."

  Something cast a shadow over her face. Instinctively, Timea jerked her hands away from her eyes and looked up, one arm raised to fend it off. A three-dimensional hexagon hung suspended just over her head. Like the cube that had preceded it, the hexagon was red and veined with gold.

  This is a sub-processing unit, the voice said. It had returned to its soothing tones.

  Timea glanced down. Nate's burned body had disappeared.

  It is trapped with blaster IC. You can destroy the IC by creating a complex form that will crash it. Concentrate on what you want the form to look like. To begin the complex form, think about something big and destructive. The bigger you imagine it, the more powerful it will be . . .

  Drek! The same lesson was repeating itself. Timea didn't want to go through this a second time. Angry and scared, she wished she had the gangers from the clinic backing her up. She imagined the ganger from the clinic blowing this whole system to pieces with his Warhawk. He'd show this null-brained program who was boss . . .

  Booming shots rang out, filling the room with noise.

  Timea instinctively ducked, but the pistol that had appeared in the air beside her was not aimed at her. Instead it peppered the icons all around her with lead, blowing fragments off them and filling the air with the smell of gunpowder.

  Most of the fire was concentrated on the hexagonal CPU icon in front of her. It shattered and splintered—then fragmented into a million pieces as it was blown away. The pistol clicked a couple of times, ejected an empty magazine, then disappeared.

  That was very good, the voice told Timea. You have mastered your first complex form. You're a good girl.

  Timea stared at the space where the hexagon had been. She'd just done the impossible—accessed and used a utility she didn't have. Her deck held plenty of offensive utilities, but none that would crash IC or an entire CPU.

  "If I'm a good girl, then reward me," Timea said bitterly. "Get me the frag out of here."

  But we've only just begun, the voice said. Don't you want to learn another form?

  "Not now," Timea said. "I've got to find someone. How do I exit this system?"

  A rectangular green block appeared in front of Timea's face. This one was solid, without the golden veins.

  This is a system access node, the voice began. It allows you to travel from host to host or system to system on the Matrix.

  Timea groaned.

  Where would you like to go next?

  "This node can access any LTG?" Timea asked.

  Any on the Seattle grid.

  That sounded more promising. But any address? That didn't slot right. SANs were programmed to allow access only to specific hosts and systems. Some systems had "trap doors"—secret entry points that only deckers with the correct password could access. But trap doors were rare. And a SAN that could access any node on a regional telecommunications grid was unheard of. Impossible.

  But so was the crash utility she'd just materialized from thin air. . .

  Timea looked dubiously at the green rectangle. Her skin was still tingling from the burns she had experienced earlier. They'd been strictly virtual—the blisters on her skin had already disappeared. But she didn't trust this program any more. Whoever had meddled with what had once been a simple MatrixPal teaching program had been one sick fragger. She didn't want to get burned a second time.

  She decided to try an experiment. She chose the address of a public database, a code-blue host with no real security to speak of. It lay at the center of the Seattle RTG and offered connections to hundreds of other systems—lots of potential escape routes. "I'd like to access NA/UCAS-SEA2066."

  The letters and numerals appeared in raised, blocky script on the cube in front of her.

  The voice resumed its instructional tone. To use a system access node, simply swipe your palm from left to right along the address you have chosen. The node will allow you to access—

  Bracing for the worst, Timea followed the instructions. The UMS icons around her shimmered and disappeared and the voice abruptly stopped . . .

  She stood on a flo
or whose surface was a polished mirror, staring down at a reflection of herself. Over the shoulder of her reflected image she could see a wall made of round, white objects. And she could see a figure, hurtling up at her.

  Hurtling down at her. Wrenching her head back, she saw a figure falling rapidly toward her—a massive troll with dreadlocks and bullet-pocked skin. A streamer of red fluttered behind the figure like a banner and his arms and legs were flailing. In less than a second he would crash down onto her . . .

  And it was too late to run.

  09:52:20 PST

  Santa Barbara, California Free State

  Dr. Halberstam cursed and shoved the cell phone into his pocket as he strode into the monitoring lab. Timea hadn't given him any answers, but maybe the biotechs could. They'd been dealing with this now for—he consulted his watch—nearly five minutes. He crossed the windowless room to consult with his two researchers.

  Park and McAllister were both peering intently at a series of computerized displays. One showed a scan of a hu-man brain, its various lobes illuminated in bright blues, greens, and yellows. As the image rotated, the colors shifted position, washing across the brain and breaking apart like brightly flowing phosphorescent waves.

  Another display showed what looked like a tangle of multicolored spiders, their bloated bodies connected one to another by multiple tendrils. The "spiders" that made up this neural map pulsed with a rapidity that caused the entire display to twinkle like a field of stars.

  The remaining displays showed scrolling numbers, menus of data, and long sequences of text that were filled with chemical formulas. Superimposed over them were pie graphs and charts whose brightly colored bars fluctuated up and down.

  "Well?" Halberstam asked. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, the image of a stern grandfather. His eyes were piercing under thick gray brows and his white lab coat was immaculately starched. A flesh-colored datajack was set discreetly into one temple, and the suit and tie he wore under his lab coat were both a somber charcoal gray.