by Paul Anlee
“This is getting weirder by the minute,” Greg said. He tried Larry’s number again. C’mon Larry! Where are you? Still no answer. Why isn’t he picking up? Was Larry missing, too, or just incommunicado, per usual?
Kathy’s mind continued to reel from the remnants of data, memories, and thoughts that had assaulted them earlier. She couldn’t make much sense of the flashing images, but she was sure it had been an emergency broadcast from Darian’s internal neural lattice to their own, a desperate effort by a dying scientist to secure his legacy the only way he could. She had no proof, nothing more than a feeling…and an empty lab.
“I’m pretty sure this was no random theft. There’s no sign of a break in, and there’s nothing else missing. Besides, who would know to take that one device and our data?” she reasoned. “It’s useless to anyone outside the lab. We need to call the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“That Darian’s missing, the RAF generator is gone, and we don’t know where Larry is.”
“I don’t think we can yet, Kath. They haven’t been missing twenty-four hours.
“But him, Larry, and the RAF device gone at the same time? That can’t be a coincidence, Greg.”
“We can’t prove that.”
“All we have to do is report it. It’s up to the police to prove it.”
“Sure, I can just hear the cops now: ‘So they took your laptop. Big deal. Take a number.’ Do you really think they’d take us seriously? As far as they’re concerned, our lab supervisor might be running a little late. They’ve got bigger things to worry about.
“For all we know, Darian took the machine home and worked on it over the weekend. Or maybe they got here ahead of us and moved it to a bigger space, or they needed some specialized equipment in another lab.”
Kathy stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. You felt it. You know what hit us! Darian is dead, or at least badly hurt. That was sheer desperation he sent out. You felt it as well as I did.”
Greg sighed. “Maybe. Maybe not. There’s no proof. How do we know it wasn’t a simple program glitch? There’s no sign of a struggle here. Nobody besides us knows Darian got the device working. I know what you think hit us in that transmission and, I agree, it felt serious. The truth is, we don’t know anything yet. We’re only guessing. What if he and Larry are on their way over right now with the RAF laptop, hot coffees, and a box of doughnuts to celebrate?
“And don’t forget, our own neuro lattices are developing and adjusting. Maybe what broadsided us was just the dendy’s next level of growth. You know, like maybe they’re linking us all together or something. What if Darian received our brain dumps in his lattice at the same time, and that’s why he’s not answering? Have you thought about that?
“You acted right away and you were able to shut it down for us, but what if Darian didn’t? What if it caught him off guard, too, and he’s lying unconscious somewhere.”
Kathy stood mute, gaping at him, and tried to come up with a response.
“I’m not trying to be difficult. All I’m saying is, we really don’t know anything yet,” Greg walked to the back office window looking into the lab. He stared at the empty lab bench. “If we report this now, we’ll only embarrass Darian and the lab. The university is already giving him a rough time. Some of those profs are just waiting for an excuse to get him fired. You’ve heard the rumors going around. We don’t need to add any more negative attention.”
“We can prove the device is missing.”
“We can claim a piece of lab equipment—which, incidentally, was publicly demonstrated to be non-functional—has gone missing. By all outward appearances, a laptop, and that’s about all. Oh, and by the way, officers, we all have a key to the anti-theft frame.”
He held up his key ring. “Darian has one, I have one, you have one, and so does Larry. For all we know, maybe one or both of them have the generator with them. The police might think one of us took it ourselves and hid it for an insurance claim; people do that all the time.”
Kathy returned to the lab area and inspected the empty frame where the RAF device should have sat. “Okay, so even with witnesses who know what was here in the lab, we have no real proof it was stolen?”
Greg joined her by the bench. “No, and we don’t even have any proof that Darian and Larry are missing, hurt, or dead. Just Darian’s private lattice conversation that no one else can access, inviting us to meet him here. And Larry’s usual behavior—ducking out for hours or days at a time without telling anybody.”
“We’re going to look hysterical, aren’t we?”
“If we call now, hysterical is the best we could hope for. More likely, crazy. And if anyone did believe us, we’d be looking like the prime suspects.”
“Okay, so what do you think we should we do?”
“I’m not sure. What have we got to work with? Nothing concrete. It felt like Darian blasted out all this data, the essence of his self, in a real panic. If he doesn’t show up soon, we can report his disappearance to the police. But until we have a better idea of what happened, until we actually know he’s missing, I don’t think there’s much we can do. Let’s give it a few more hours and see what we can find out. If we don’t hear from him and if he doesn’t show up for work…”
“You mean, when he doesn’t show up for work. C’mon, Greg. You know what we experienced. That was a dying gasp.”
“I refuse to jump to conclusions. Like I said, the police won’t do anything until he’s been missing twenty-four hours. If he hasn’t checked in by tomorrow morning, we’ll go talk to Dr. Wong and he can make the call.
“In the meantime, let’s leave a note here in case one of them does show up, and we’ll walk the route back to Darian’s apartment. Maybe he fell, or got mugged, or something like that. If we find any sign he disappeared under duress—like a shoe or his backpack, anything like that—we’ll call the police right away.”
“And what about the RAF generator?”
“I think we better keep that between us for now. For sure, don’t tell anyone that Darian got it working. It’ll make no difference to a police investigation, and it could make things worse. Right now, we’re the only ones who know about it besides Darian. And maybe Larry, if he crashed here overnight and Darian’s already talked to him. I doubt it, but anything’s possible.
“I don’t want to worry you but, if you’re right and someone did hurt Darian and steal the generator, we don’t know who’s involved or what they know. If they know what they’ve got in their hands and that we helped design it, we could be next.”
Kathy’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. Do you think we’re in danger? Darian wouldn’t have told anyone else about the RAF generator working. Not yet. We were the first ones he called. And Larry couldn’t have known for more than a few minutes, if at all. We were supposed to tell him on the way into the lab, remember?”
“…and he didn’t answer his phone or door.” Greg nodded, “I know I said I didn’t want to jump to conclusions but it’s not looking good, is it? I mean, it might be typical Larry, not answering his phone or door, but when you put that together with everything else….”
“Okay,” Kathy said. “You have me convinced; let’s not backtrack. Come on, we’ll go check the route to Darian’s place, and if we don’t see anything there, we can call nearby hospitals. Maybe there’s a simple explanation. I don’t know what else to do.”
“We can talk to Campus Security and the Department Chair first thing tomorrow. It’ll have been twenty-four hours by then. Dr. Wong will need to know what’s going on, anyway, and maybe the police will take it more seriously if he or Campus Security reports it.”
Kathy looked around the lab. Her shoulders sank. “I feel useless.”
Greg pulled her into a hug. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do right now. I hate this, too, not knowing what’s going on. And I hate not being able to activate my l
attice so I can think properly. But when I imagine all those little bits of Darian’s mind out there, just waiting to storm into us again the second we reconnect our communications….” Greg shuddered. “That’s an experience I don’t care to repeat.”
Kathy snuggled her face into his shoulder. “I know, but I really don’t like being normal again. Do you?”
Chapter 2
“And how long will you be here in Casa DonTon, Mr. Trillian?” Lady Frieda, the oldest and most obviously available of five sisters, played with her dark curls.
The sumptuously appointed Family Dining Room bubbled with bravado and promise. The two dozen guests who had bagged some game in the afternoon hunt were the only people invited to join the family for this exclusive repast. Along with Mr. Trillian, of course. As the wealthy scion of a powerful industrialist of mysterious reputation, Mr. Trillian himself was an attractive catch.
The fact that he was also achingly handsome, athletic and, most importantly, wealthy garnered him an invitation to dine with the family, regardless of his obvious distaste for chasing small foxes with large horses, slathering hounds, and ridiculously oversized guns.
Trillian’s intentionally dismal performance in the hunt, bordering on outright refusal to participate, did nothing to dissuade Lady Frieda and her sisters from their lavish flirting.
The object of the young ladies’ attentions gently extracted himself from their clutches. “Sadly, ladies, I must take my leave before the evening wears too late. I have pressing business to attend to.”
Five predictably disappointed pouts appeared.
“However, I do hope you will permit me the honor of visiting again soon,” he added.
The bachelorettes brightened straight away.
“Well, we have you for now and we shan’t let you off without at least one dance each,” chirped Lady Mirabel, the youngest of the five.
Mr. Trillian bowed his head to her in polite acknowledgment.
“Miry, my precious, please let Mr. Trillian finish his meal in peace,” Lord Chattingbaron admonished. “He has far more important matters to attend to than some silly dancing, I’m sure.”
Mr. Trillian held up a hand to stem his host’s mock objection. “Nothing could be as important to me as spending the evening in the company of your lovely and charming family, my Lord. Unfortunately, my investors insist I elevate their mundane material priorities above my own pleasures. I must visit the office this evening.”
He smiled graciously at Lady Mirabel, setting her heart aflutter, and sampled the roasted mutton.
“I, for one, find discussing matters of business at the evening meal to be distasteful. It interferes with one’s digestion,” declared Lady Chattingbaron with a flick of her napkin. “Tell me, Mr. Trillian, Did you enjoy your ride today?”
“Very much. You have the most wonderful grounds, and the forest is magnificent.” Trillian speared a succulent piece of meat in evidence of the family’s bountiful estate. “Lady Adele gave me quite the competition jumping the brooks, I’m afraid.”
Lady Adele blushed to a shade befitting the dashing man’s compliment. Four sets of artfully shaped brows scowled discreetly at his appreciation of her riding skills.
Timothy, the family’s First Footman, removed the remains of the main course from in front of the young heiresses. Their figures would not tolerate the excessive ingestion of heavy meat and potatoes, not if they wished to draw the attention of the likes of Mr. Trillian. Timothy nodded to the Head Butler. It was time to light the peach flambé.
As desserts were offered, some of the young men took the opportunity to engage Lady Frieda and her sisters in small talk not relating to the dashing Mr. Trillian.
Timothy started dessert service with his Lordship at the head of the table and worked his way around until he’d completed nearly a full circle. He stopped in front of Mr. Trillian and presented the polished tray holding hot brandied peaches and ice cream.
The guest didn’t notice Timothy standing expectantly beside him; his attention was focused on a nondescript closet door on the opposite wall.
Timothy subtly cleared his throat to draw the man’s attention, but Mr. Trillian’s interest remained abnormally fixated on the closet. The Footman was about to cough discreetly when the room went fuzzy and he heard a dozen bees passing within inches of his ears.
Many years of training and discipline helped him maintain a firm grip on the dessert tray instead of frantically batting away at the loathsome insects, as he desperately wanted to do.
He strained to maintain his stooped serving position, but the disconcerting noise around his head became too much to bear. He twitched, just once. Three delicately cut-glass dessert bowls slid across the polished tray, bumped against the lip, and spilled a few syrupy drops of peach juice onto the table linen.
The unexpected clatter wrenched Mr. Trillian’s gaze from the closet and back to the table.
The buzzing in Timothy’s ears stopped at precisely the same moment, as did conversation among the startled diners. All eyes turned to Timothy, who stood in stunned silence.
“Whatever has gotten into you, Timothy?” Lady Chattingbaron demanded.
Timothy was as surprised as anyone. That is to say, as surprised as any Partial could be which, under normal circumstances, wasn’t all that much.
“One moment, my Lady. I shall inquire of the DonTon Supervisor.”
Initiate self-diagnostics—he sent to the local inworld supervisory program.
The diagnostic generally reported findings within milliseconds. This time, it dragged on, and on. Entire seconds passed. Most uncomfortably. Guests grew restless. They drummed their fingers, and they rolled their eyes. What was the holdup? This was most unusual! Completely unacceptable for a game such as DonTon.
* * *
The DonTon inworld simulation was about as proper as the classic conservative Victorian England society it portrayed.
It was not a demanding inworld, filled as it was with activities no more strenuous than dining, dancing, visiting, playing cards, flirting, and the occasional hunt. The main features hadn’t changed in millennia.
The local physics were realistic, if somewhat unsophisticated. Since nobody ever examined the buildings or the wildlife too closely, they didn’t need to be overly detailed.
Likewise, nobody paid much attention to the hundreds of thousands of servants, caretakers, town folk, and city folk who populated this inworld. They were only Partials—Partial personas—a simple backdrop for the real entertainment: the endless pursuit and seduction of marriageable partners, and the creation of new family ties that carried out into the real universe.
Many hopefuls had tried to work their way into some kind of relationship with The Family. Only a small percentage succeeded.
The immediate Family, a few hundred Chattingbarons, had dominated the DonTon inworld for ages. Their closely-guarded separation from the wider Sagittarian Cybrid inworlds lent an air of mystery to the Family and the Casa, making a visit to DonTon one of the most sought-after invitations. Though they all held perfectly normal Cybrid jobs in the outworld, here, the Family ruled.
Mr. Trillian’s interest in this particular inworld had nothing to do with the Family, its eligible high-profile guests, or its valuable social connections.
Trillian, Shard of Alum, was engaged in an important mission: to break into the nearby unsanctioned inworld of Alternus. His idea to use Casa DonTon as his launching point had been inspired, if he did say so himself. He’d instantiated in DonTon as Mr. Trillian, setting aside his lofty title as one of Alum’s most trusted agents in order to blend in among the horde of eligible bachelors. Shard Trillian was known throughout the Realm. Mr. Trillian evoked nervous titters on conveying his audacious name choice. People could hardly believe Alum had permitted someone to name their inworld avatar after the famous Shard.
From the frivolous hub of Casa DonTon, Trillian hoped to launch a covert incursion into the Alternus in
world. His previous attempts to secretly enter Alternus by more conventional methods had failed. He was surprised, but also impressed.
Alternus might be the most cleverly protected inworld I’ve ever encountered. I must question its designer. It’s been eons since I’ve run into a worthy opponent.
He dug into the problem with glee. It had been easy enough to discover their passcode phrase, “There’s no place like home.” The early and nearly effortless success made him over-confident and careless. He dismissed Alum’s warning about the malicious thought-virus lurking at Alternus’ regular portal as unwarranted and needlessly patronizing. That is, until it caught him off guard and nearly overwhelmed his personal defenses.
Outwardly, the miniscule bit of code appeared innocuous. It did no more than instill a minimal level of open-mindedness, a willingness to simply consider criticisms of the Lord, in the minds of those who would normally view such ideas as the highest blasphemy. Compounding the slight openness was a gentle predisposition toward distrust of Alum’s rank as the universe’s Ultimate Authority. The virus’ influence was as delicate as it was insidiously treacherous.
Thanks to his standard operating procedure for investigating new inworlds, rather than acute foresight, Trillian evaded the worst of the effect. Before connecting to Alternus, he’d isolated his inworld interface from deeper mental structures.
As it had been designed to do, the virus slipped through his firewall and was already seeding doubt before Trillian could reprogram his belief network—his concepta—to ignore it. He disengaged before his core persona was critically subverted, but the virus had gotten close. Too close.
Once safely away from the inworld, it took a few hours of concerted effort to identify and remove the nasty effects. The ego-checking close call convinced him to drop any idea of a frontal assault in favor of a more indirect infiltration. He enjoyed a challenge—to a point. It kept things interesting, but he had work to do, and “interesting” was getting in the way.
Sitting at the dining table looking at his alternate portal to Alternus—tucked behind an innocent looking closet door—Trillian felt pleased with his new plan.
