The three, an older man and a younger woman and man, were dressed the same, exactly like me, even the same cap that had been plopped jauntily on my head. In the midst of the deck's flurry, they stood still while the older man lectured. I waited politely.
"This is the ‘try-works,'” the professor said, gesturing at a brick box on the deck ahead of the main mast. “It's basically for boiling whale oil out of blubber. Melville devotes an entire chapter to the try-works, but God knows what the metaphorical meaning is—"
While the professor was fixated on the try-works and the boy was fixated on the girl, the girl met my eyes and interrupted the lecture: “Professor, I think this is a real person, and he wants to talk to you!"
"What? You should have come earlier! Just be quiet and—"
"I'm not a student,” I said.
He looked me over. His tone changed from drill-sergeant authority to one of uncertainty: “You do seem rather old to be one."
"I'm a consultant for the company that developed the software for this VR simulation,” I replied. They perked at that sentence, which quite possibly never emerged from the lips of a real nineteenth century employee of the whaling industry. “There's a problem and we need to get you out. Do you have an assigned ejection procedure?"
They each held out their left arms and pulled down their sleeves. Each wore a wristband with a red button.
"Go ahead and press them."
They exchanged glances and I wondered if I'd have to pick a guinea pig, but then they all pressed at once. And again and again. And then they exchanged glances, with vastly changed expressions.
"This is clearly unacceptable,” the professor said. “Do you realize how much the university paid for this simulation? We were assured there was no physical danger—"
"If you read the licensing agreement,” I replied, “you'll see it's worded the same as the licensing agreements for personal computer applications."
"Oh, man,” the boy said. “We're toast, aren't we?"
While the professor's face went red and he tightened his fists, the girl politely asked, “What do we do now?"
She may have been only eighteen or so, but I sensed she was the only one of the three who had the maturity to appreciate that I was risking my life to save them. It didn't surprise me that a female was the only one to show courtesy because in my experience, males inside even noncompetitive “experiential” VR simulations tend to subconsciously lapse into gamer mode.
Speaking of that, the boy was frowning at me. He obviously didn't like me looking at her. I didn't like his possessiveness, but I wasn't there to compete.
Regaining composure, I said, as business-like as I could: “There's a verbal code phrase that's ingrained into the operating system.” Not wanting to vanish in mid-sentence in case it was working now, I phrased cautiously: “You say the words, ‘Karma,’ and ‘Eject,’ but without the ‘and’ in the middle."
"Karma ... Eject?” she asked.
"Yes, but a little faster, no pause inbetween. Like it's a command."
"Karma Eject!” she declared.
The others repeated, again and again. Around us, the crew went about its hyperkinetic business. The breeze hissed through the ropes and ruffled the sails. Above the splash of waves and the creak of the hull, they chanted: “Karma Eject! Karma Eject! Karma Eject!"
Eventually they wearied, and their voices trailed off into a murmur. You didn't need Evocation to sense the tinge of despair.
Ramathustra intervened: “I need to speak to you in private."
"Sure,” I said. I held my forefinger in a just-a-moment gesture to the others, and stepped from earshot. “What's up?"
"Are you out of hearing range of all simulation characters?"
I saw them reading my frown. I moved toward the bow, found a deserted spot near the rail, and faced the sea. With a good idea and a bad feeling as to what he was about to say, I visually swept the horizon, verifying that neither seagull nor dolphin was in range to read my lips.
"All right,” I said, tweaking the earphone volume. “We're private."
"The system administrator has reported regarding the size of the data stream that breached the firewall into the university system,” Ramathustra replied. “The file length was exactly seven hundred and seventy-seven gigabytes."
My breath caught and my heartbeat skipped.
"You're sure? I mean, are they sure?"
"I asked twice myself. Yes, it is our old friend. Mister Pazuzu."
In ancient Babylonian myth, Pazuzu was a demon. Three millennia later, Pazuzu was incorporated as a character in RLT's premier demo simulation, Virtual Babylon. Then one day, a geek on the project development team thought it would be “schweet” to merge Pazuzu's AI with a common computer virus. His progeny was unleashed—or it escaped, the story isn't clear—onto the internet, whereupon it became legend.
A somewhat unholy legend.
Through a dry throat, I asked: “Do we know what it wants?"
"They are interrogating a copy. It invariably responds with, ‘Up yours.’”
"You've encountered it before. Can you guess what it wants?"
"He is the most formidable of VR system viruses, wiser than Apollyon, Prestige, or even The Beast. Yet if this version remains true to the strain, he desires only to survive."
I noted the lapse into “he.” Ramathustra had been a virus hunter in his early career. I suppose that takes a certain mindset.
"So is ... ‘he’ ... holding us hostage?” I asked.
"That would imply he trusts humans enough to negotiate. No, he breached the university firewall with the simple goal of taking residence in one of the simulations without detection.” With voice lowered, he added: “However, in shutting down the simulations, the system administrator made him aware that he had not avoided detection."
"So what's ‘his’ plan now?"
"I doubt he has one. His sole objective is to keep the users trapped in the simulation, so that the simulation will not be rebooted and he will not be erased."
"But that only works until membrane fatigue!"
He paused. “Yes, he will take the lives of the users, merely to extend his own by hours. Yet he is not vicious, only self-absorbed."
"Then—how—"
While I sputtered, a tingle came over me. Know how you can sense when someone's standing behind you? Maybe it's how their body muffles ambient noise. Anyhow, it's one way Evocation comes in handy. I knew they were there before I turned.
"So what's the story?” the professor asked.
Overhearing, Ramathustra whispered: “You can't confide anything until you ascertain their allegiance."
"All right, let me think—"
"It can't be anything in their personnel files,” Ramathustra added, “or on their personal web pages. Pazuzu may know them better than do their friends. You must—"
"Stop!” They winced at the shout. But an idea had come, and I said to them: “Listen, do you have a place in the real world that all of you are familiar with, say somewhere on campus?"
"Heh,” the boy said, chuckling. “'Real world.’ That's what we call off campus."
"Well, the classroom of course,” the professor said.
"Is there a web camera in the classroom?"
"What does that—"
"It's very important. Does it have a web cam?"
"No..."
"Is there a web cam outside, that can see into the classroom?"
"I don't think so. See here, what—"
"Please. I'll explain in a moment. I want each of you to describe something about the room. Not a commonplace element, not a clock or flag. Something distinctive."
The girl got it first. “There's a poster of King Ludwig's castle."
The professor pursed his lips. “The pencil holder is a ceramic Napoleon."
The boy shrugged. “On the door, there's a scuff mark, uh, like a boomerang."
"You all agree?” I asked.
They nodded. Assuming the virus ha
dn't been able to replicate itself three-fold while under the constraints of the simulation, I motioned them into a huddle.
"The simulation has been infiltrated by an intelligent virus,” I said. “It can impersonate any character, including user avatars. Just now, I verified it's not one of you, but it could be anyone else here."
The boy squinted. “How do we know it's not you?"
"Because I'm getting you out before membrane fatigue."
"What's that?” the girl asked.
The boy pinched thumb and forefinger. “When we go squish."
"Unfortunately,” I replied, “that's correct. And we've got just a few hours."
The professor's immersion unit, accurately I presume, portrayed color draining from his cheeks. The boy lost his bravado and paled also. The girl froze and stared. I guess I'm not the only one with that problem.
I continued: “We've tried administrative and auto eject procedures, and the virus has blocked those. We can try suicide, but that can be ... messy. No telling how much the physical safety routines have been compromised. Although, I don't think we have a choice."
I was reaching for my satchel when the professor said, “Why don't we just wait for the story to end?"
I lowered my hand. “What do you mean?"
"I was head of the specifications development committee for this simulation. The simulation tracks the plot of the novel, then it ends, and we walk out unharmed. That's how it was designed, and that's how it's worked all the times I've been in here before."
I said to Ramathustra: “What do you think?"
"Hmm,” Ramathustra replied after a lengthy pause. “The sys admin says he is correct. It is a narrative-type simulation. End the story, end the sim, the membrane retracts, the IU unlocks. The inevitability is such that the virus cannot prevail."
"So our best course of action is to wait and do nothing?"
"To not interfere with the narrative flow, yes."
Thinking of the tiring membrane, I addressed the professor: “How long do we have to wait? Isn't Moby Dick a big, thick book?"
"I suppose.” His tone was dismissive. “But the simulation is intended only as a supplement to reading. It contains only the climactic scene, in which Captain Ahab confronts the whale. Once that occurs, the story concludes immediately."
"When does the confrontation start?"
"Actually ... it should have happened by now.” He raised his hand as visor and scanned the sea. “The whale always appears directly ahead, but I don't see the spout yet."
"Aren't we supposed to chase it?” the girl asked.
The professor wore a blank look, and I had the notion that he wasn't sure about the answer, even though it seemed obvious.
"The whale didn't chase the ship,” she said. “The ship chased the whale. But right now, we're not moving fast enough to catch it."
"Ah,” the professor said, examining the waves. “Yes, it does seem we are moving slower than usual. But as none of us are skilled in seamanship, how do we fix that?"
"We could raise the sails,” the girl said.
She pointed at the masts. The sails were at half height, rumpled and sagging. The boy started for the lines, but I motioned him to stop.
"There's an easier way,” I said. I tapped the screen in my hand. A list of simulation characters scrolled. “I'll just impersonate the captain and give the order."
"You can do that?” the professor asked.
"No problem."
I tapped Ahab, Captain—and instantly bent with agony.
"Auggh!" I cried. “My leg!"
"He's an amputee!” the girl shrieked.
I jabbed the screen. The pressure eased on my calf, ankle, and foot. I staggered against the rail, took a few breaths, reexamined the list. “Who's next in command?"
It was the girl, not the professor, who replied: “First Mate Starbuck."
Tap. They watched in curiosity as my face sprouted a beard and my coat lengthened and changed color. I seemed to grow a couple of inches, too. At least the transformation was painless. Regaining my stance, I faced the deck crew and drew a deep breath.
"ALL RIGHT, MATIES—COME OVER HERE AND LISTEN UP!"
Ramathustra muttered: “You need to warn me before you do that."
The crew shuffled into a loose mass. They were definitely an eccentric bunch, but one would have been noteworthy at a Halloween party for zombified goths: towering head and shoulders, his grim visage patterned with pinprick scars, muscular calloused hands gripping a harpoon. If I were a virus—
"Okay,” I said. “Now we need to, uh..."
Humans and AIs alike, they waited as I contemplated my near-zero knowledge of nautical terminology. I looked to the girl.
"All hands, make sail?” she prompted.
"ALL HANDS—MAKE SAIL!” I bellowed.
They shouted and uttered cries and clambered up the masts and yanked on ropes and raised the sails. Unfurled, the sheets fluttered and caught the wind tautly. Briskly, waves glided by and the sea breeze whipped my cheeks (the unbearded parts, that is). I stood squarely on the deck, clasped hands behind my back, and resolutely faced the whitecapped waters ahead.
I'll tell you, I've flown star fighters and decapitated dragons, but nothing in a simulation gave quite the same rush as being on that deck, knowing I was in command.
Enjoy it while it lasts, I thought, watching Harpoon Guy from the corner of my eye.
Well, it got old fast. Once the ship was under way, there weren't any more orders to give. The sea was empty, and one wave looked like another, which I am told is how it goes in the real world, too. The immersion unit membrane rocked with the motion of the ship, and Evocation got to my stomach again.
The professor monopolized the conversation with the students, and I moved to the bow and tried to speak to Ramathustra, but out in the real world they were still attempting a technical means for ejection, and he was preoccupied. I tried talking to the simulation characters, but the gamut of their responses was “Aye sir,” “No sir,” and blank stares. Finally, I took position at the rail, reflected that Master & Commander wasn't all that it was cracked up to be, stared at the waves, and drifted into a state of semihypnosis.
After a few minutes, I noticed a shadow across my arm. The girl was at the rail alongside me, holding out her cell phone.
"I can't get this to work,” she said.
I shook my head. “It won't work in here. Sorry."
She studied my face. The system must have been reproducing the green hue. She frowned.
"You don't look well."
I forced a smile. “Motion sickness."
"We're not really moving, though."
"Maybe not in terms of distance, but we're rocking back and forth."
"Not really. It's just visual cues, an optical illusion."
I felt more than a little jealousy. For her, it was just a sedate literary simulation.
"It's different with me. I'm highly suggestive to audiovisual stimuli. Sometimes I feel hot and cold, smell and taste, even though the system doesn't actually provide those sensory inputs."
"Isn't there a name for that? ‘Synesthesia.’ When one sense triggers another."
I was familiar with the term; the company therapist had mentioned it. “Well ... I don't smell colors or taste shapes. Officially, my psychological condition is called, ‘Evocation.’ It means that I tend to be more immersed in simulations than most people are. It's not that I can't tell the difference between reality and a sim. It's that the sim comes across just as vividly as reality."
"Hmm.” She hunched over the rail. “I don't feel that. I feel like I'm in a booth in a room, watching a cartoon."
"Well, then you're a hard-nosed realist."
"Not at all. When I read a book, it's like I'm in another world. But here, it's like all the technology is trying to manipulate me—pushing and poking. I think I subconsciously rebel, so it ends up being less immersive."
As she gazed across the sea, I took a closer look at
her. Maybe she wasn't such a kid. She sure wasn't a moron. Not like that boy. But then, as I thought about it some more, I began to wonder if maybe he wasn't such a moron, either.
"That guy you're with...” I said.
"Oh, I'm not ‘with’ him. He asked me on a date a while back, but—noooo, thanks."
"Well, what I mean is—"
Suddenly she looked at me directly. “You think he's the virus?"
"A scuff mark on a door isn't all that distinctive. The more I think about it, the lamer it sounds."
She laughed. “He's kind of a lame guy. I think he takes this class just to pick up chicks."
Mea culpa, I thought, recalling my own college days.
"It's not him,” she continued. “He's been in our sight the whole time. But—who do you think it is?"
I casually glanced at Harpoon Guy and made a single short nod.
"Queequeg? If I were a virus, I wouldn't impersonate him. He stands out too much."
"Who would you impersonate?"
She thought a moment, then said: “The whale."
"Huh?"
"It's the most unexpected, isn't it? Besides, at the end of the story, the only characters who survive are the protagonist, Ishmael, and the antagonist, Moby. Well, all the users are collectively assigned the role of Ishmael—so that leaves Moby for the virus."
I scrolled the tablet. There were four Ishmaels, one for each human. And yes, Moby was on the character list.
"I will keep that in mind,” I said. I didn't meet her gaze as I put the tablet away because frankly I felt a little stupid that an amateur could see the obvious and I couldn't.
"I don't understand, though,” she said. “Why would a computer virus want to take on the identity of a VR character?"
In hindsight, I wonder if she was patronizing me, but at least I had the answer for that: “If you're an artificially intelligent virus, you take a lot of file space and you need a big place to hide. VR simulations are the biggest memory and processor hogs there are. Even a 3D game on a personal computer can have a file size larger than the database of a national telephone directory."
Analog SFF, December 2008 Page 10
