by Kirton, Bill
Alternative Dimension
Bill Kirton
© Bill Kirton 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1480022058
ISBN-10: 1480022055
DEDICATION
For the many friends I met in Second Life™.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1
1
The birth of AD
5
2
In the beginning
9
3
Tangled Webs
17
4
Vixen’s Secret
23
5
Stitchley the Entrepreneur
29
6
Summer Brunch
35
7
Independence Day
39
8
Renaissance
45
9
The Goddess Calira
51
10
Descartes and the Rabbit
57
11
Girls and Boys
61
12
Settling Down
69
13
Health and Safety
75
14
Cats
79
15
The Princess
85
16
Coffee Break
91
17
Unholy Matrimony
97
18
Feedback
103
19
The Inside Story
107
20
Anything’s Possible – Part One
115
21
Anything’s Possible – Part Two
123
22
Anything’s Possible – Part Three
129
23
Transition – Part One
135
24
Transition – Part Two
141
What others said about Alternative Dimension
“… for all its dystopian menace, the story is carried along by its sparkling humour and we find ourselves enjoying the fate of those seduced by the promise of virtual bliss.”
—Edgar
“I liked the humor … and the sometimes absurdly comical events that take place in AD’s world”
—Heikki Hietala
“… there is humour aplenty. Like a picaresque novel, or a weird modern version of Pilgrim’s Progress, or maybe even a Canterbury Tales for our times”
—Cally Philips
PROLOGUE
Stitchley Green hated mirrors as much as he hated his name. His parents, Samuel and Samantha, had been flower children and they’d met at a ‘happening’ in a barn which called itself The Stitchley Experience. They’d tossed a coin to decide whether to make love that night or wait until the following day and do it in dew and sunshine. It was tails, so Stitchley was conceived, twelve minutes later, on a hay bale. If the coin had come down heads, he’d have been called Dew, so his beginnings weren’t as bad as they might have been.
The two Sams stuck to their Peace and Love convictions long past the time when those who’d shared joints with them had become bankers and copywriters for ad agencies. As a result, Stitchley’s early schooling had involved sitting in fields looking at blades of grass or, with dad on guitar, singing along to his mum’s lyrics about ‘stones of repentance, trees of despair, and all the bright confusion of disaster’. He didn’t understand any of it but he did like living in a tree.
At last, though, their tree was felled and reality started to push its way into their idyll. Both Sams got jobs so Stitchley had to go to school. Which was bewildering. You’d think, with such a name, he’d be bullied. In fact, to his surprise, he turned out to be quite popular. But it was mainly because the other kids in his class were always entertained by the answers he gave the various teachers. When they were studying the Tudors, the History master had asked him how many English kings had the name Henry.
‘Well, I’ve heard of the one who killed his wives, Henry VIII,’ said Stitchley.
‘Good,’ said the teacher. ‘So how many Henrys were there, then?’
Stitchley gave it some more thought and said, ‘Four’.
It was the same in Modern Studies. The teacher wanted to know which middle east country was causing problems by threatening to make hydrogen bombs. It was the main one in what George W Bush, when he was president of the USA, had called the Axis of Evil. Stitchley tried Cardiff, then Ireland, then asked for a clue.
‘OK,’ said the teacher, and he suddenly ran down the aisle between the desks.
‘Now, what would I say I’d just done?’ he asked, panting a little. ‘I ….?’
‘Went to the back of the room?’ said Stitchley.
‘No,’ said the teacher. ‘Listen – today I RUN, but last week I …?’
‘Walked?’ said Stitchley.
And so it went on. Stitchley frowning with puzzlement as his classmates and teachers fell about roaring with laughter. He told the Religious and Moral Education teacher that the Pope was Jewish, and his efforts at Creative Writing are still kept in a special file in the school library, which gets read more often than any of the great literary masters on the shelves. People just love reading stories in which ‘Sir Lancelot was as tall as a horse which was six feet tall’, or ‘They had never met before that day, so they were like two people who had never met before’.
After school, he’d had a series of poorly paid jobs until the economic situation and some brutal government cuts ensured he’d probably never find work again. So when we meet him, at the age of forty-two, he seems to have lived down to his name with great success. One look at him explained immediately why he hated mirrors. The kindest word one might use of his appearance and demeanour would be ‘unprepossessing’ but most people satisfied themselves with sounds of simulated vomiting. Later, though, when he resurfaces here, we’ll see how a simple online role-playing game turned his life, and reality itself, upside-down and brought him satisfactions far in advance of many of those enjoyed by his contemporaries and an opulence which changed his sixty-eight year old mother’s lyrics forever.
1 THE BIRTH OF AD
When it came to programming, Joe Lorimer was a genius. To him, algorithms were as transparent as politicians’ promises. He could knock one up in the time it takes the rest of us to key in a password, carving out immaculate solutions step by step to make life easier for everyone who bought his company’s products. But it was only that Tuesday night in the pub, when the booze had shoved his usual clear, disciplined logic aside that his gift moved up a gear and his life changed along with that of hundreds of thousands of others. It was his first step towards the millions he would make. It also led to his eventual disappearance.
It was a chat with Nathan that started it.
‘One day,’ Joe said, as he took the full pint glasses off the tray and laid them on the table, ‘we won’t need this stuff to get out of our skulls. Won’t even need a pill.’
�
�Crap,’ said Nathan. ‘
‘No, true,’ said Joe. ‘No outside agencies. Just a slide into another dimension.’
His hand described the slide – a slow, graceful, confident motion.
‘I reckon you’re already there,’ said Nathan.
Joe sat back and did his ‘I know things you couldn’t even dream of’ pose.
‘That industrial revolution,’ he said.
‘What about it?’
‘Chicken feed. Paltry.’
‘Poultry?’
‘No, paltry. Compared with what’s happening now, a blip. Nothing.’
‘What’s happening now is you’re talking crap,’ said Nathan.
‘You’ll see,’ said Joe. ‘We’re right on the cusp of a virtual revolution.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. If it’s only virtual …’
Joe raised a hand to stop him.
‘D’you know there are nearly two hundred different virtual worlds on the go?’ he said. ‘With more people registered on them than there are actual people in the USA and Europe combined.’ He took out his mobile and looked at it. ‘Soon, we’ll be using these to synch our real world with a virtual one.’
‘I don’t have a virtual one,’ said Nathan.
‘You’ve got more than you think,’ said Joe. ‘People still talk about 3D. That’s Stone Age stuff. Know how many dimensions there are in string theory?’
‘Three hundred and twelve.’
‘No, don’t be a dickhead. Ten. Still not enough, though. M-theory reckons there’s eleven.’
‘Maybe, but this is the only one with real beer. That’s the way I like it.’
Joe gestured towards the others sitting round the crowded bar. It was the usual mix, punters in their twenties and thirties, a few a bit older, males and females, fat, thin and ranging from gorgeous to grotesque.
‘Yeah, but think about it. In a virtual world, this lot would all look like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,’ he said. ‘Better, really. Heard of ray tracing?’
Nathan shook his head and drank some more.
‘It’s a way of sort of simulating 3D,’ said Joe. ‘We’re getting faster connections, more processing power, video streaming’s better. Soon you won’t be able to tell the difference between what’s on your screen and what’s going on around you.’
‘That’s been happening for years,’ said Nathan. ‘Soaps, Big Brother, X Factor. Christ, they even call it “Reality” TV. We’re living our lives through a bunch of onscreen losers and wankers.’
‘Yeah, but I’m talking about interacting with the screen people,’ said Joe, getting even more excited. ‘Being one of them, making real and virtual the same.’
‘Joe,’ said Nathan, putting a hand on his arm. ‘You’re talking shite. OK, it’s the sort of shite I like, but it’s still shite.’
Hard to believe maybe, but that’s where Alternative Dimension, or AD as everyone now calls it, started. In the weeks after that drunken chat, Joe revisited some favourite websites on programming, 3D graphics engines, physics simulation and real-time shader techniques. He’d played plenty of Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games. He knew the strategies and what he’d need in the way of game mechanics, network protocols, security safeguards and relational database design. He understood the fundamental architecture of the systems needed to create a stable online environment which would be permanently in place when players decided to visit.
He also knew that, to make it work the way he wanted it to, he’d need to find funding. Big funding. Bloody huge funding, in fact. And if he really did want to convince speculators that he was worth a punt, his demo version would need to offer something very different from all the ones which were already up and running.
He had all the technological know-how but it was the psychology of the game that interested him most. There were no algorithms governing human behaviour. He read how people in the normal dimension of their everyday lives (or ND as he and those who played AD came to call it) had joined role-playing games and basically created new versions of themselves. Control freaks, decision-makers, individuals in upper management – they all logged on as slaves and servants to get insights into areas of life which were foreign to them. Men chose to be women and vice versa. Supermarket shelf-stackers could be lions, dragons, emperors. The point was that, in the end, they weren’t just playing a game; the things they did with others in the games were real. Their avatars moved in magic kingdoms but the experiences took place in the minds of the people sitting at keyboards in ND.
Joe decided not to use voice-activated protocols to begin with. He reckoned that, by making players contact each other by typing messages on screen, he could slow the whole process down, give it a different tempo from that of ND and make it all more relaxed. Survey after survey showed that players, especially men, found socialising easier online and actually preferred to ‘be’ with others while they stayed in the warmth and security of their own home. Typing their thoughts gave them time to shape them with more care, and anyway, it wasn’t so different from the texting they were doing every day in their normal lives. They were just moving in a different world, one where they could lose their inhibitions, tell lies. They were free.
So Joe filled the world of AD with sensory experiences and opportunities which increased that feeling of freedom and turned promises into realities. When the investors he approached tried the game, they were excited by it, saw its potential and, just over two years from that drunken conversation with Nathan, the beta version of Alternative Dimension was launched. It took less than two months for journalists to discover it and the enthusiasm of their reviews soon had people signing on from everywhere in the world. AD had become a reality.
2 IN THE BEGINNING
After such a long period of concentrated development, Joe was more than ready to take some time off from both research and the corporate world. With all the servers and other platforms handling the levels of traffic with ease, he could shift his focus to actually logging on to AD and finding ways of enhancing the experience of living there. His aim really was to create a dimension which residents could synch with their everyday lives and so he’d made it a world which reflected the geography and structures of the real one; its continents were the same but players could add more if they wanted to, using the in-game protocols to form new land masses, build structures, create artefacts.
Most activities were available by simply using devices which Joe called action hooks. Players could buy them and install them on their properties or just carry them round in their personal files. Simply by taking out the relevant hook and touching it, a player’s avatar could dance, ski, sail, eat, make love and perform more or less any action in the normal human (or animal) repertory. Moving about their world was easy; they could stroll, run, fly or, if they didn’t want to waste time, simply translocate by clicking on a button beside the desired location on a list of the ones they’d stored or in a travel directory. The richer or more flamboyant ones could choose to ride dragons or unicorns. In AD, if you could imagine it, you could do it.
There were cities, naturally enough, but also seemingly endless forests, magical kingdoms, medieval landscapes into which stressed escapees from the ND rat race could materialise and, for a few precious hours, live a pastoral idyll.
As creator of this magical place, Joe had to choose his avatar with great care. He made one which was a rugged, handsome Brad Pitt type, calling him Ross Magee and dressing him in black leather. Through Ross, he could lose himself amongst all the other avatars which residents had made for themselves and find out exactly what they did, what they wanted.
But he also wanted residents to know that there was someone responsible for it all, a creator, and so he sometimes logged on as Red Loth.
The name evolved from his pride at being responsible for such a place. He’d tried various anagrams of Jehovah without success and soon saw that The Lord, as well as covering several beliefs, including aristocracy, offered more scope. He wasn’t
in any way religious but he recognised that most of the early users of AD would probably be from western democracies and many of them would expect a comfortable deity to be involved at some point. In a way, it solved the problem of worship – no need to go to a real church, you could just fly your avatar to an AD one and pray from the comfort of your computer chair.
As he tried out the various possible anagrams – Held Rot, Herd Lot, Told Her, Her Dolt and so on – they all sounded mundane and somehow significant. In the end, he opted for Red Loth because Red was a simple, familiar, cowboyish forename, and Loth had a Norwegian feel to it and could therefore imply a sort of connection with the Norse sagas.
And it’s with this avatar that we make our first entry into AD. Joe shrugged off his puny humanity, became Red Loth, creator of AD, and stood on a hill overlooking his creation. And he saw that it was good. He had laboured many months creating its light and shade, lifting its mountains, filling its oceans, taking the ribs out of avatars to make other avatars, multiplying species and forging the many dimensions which permitted the co-existence of humanoids and sprites, beasts and princesses. His forests spread through the land, dappling the shade beneath their branches where lovers walked, and his deserts and mountains baked hot under a sun which rose and fell, rose and fell – again and again throughout the day, as often as the residents wanted it to.
And He rested.
But soon His rest was disturbed by big music. Really big music, with trumpets and other brass instruments building in triumph to a climax, then swelling to a yet higher one. It was music that was noble, inspiring, worthy of His grandeur. But it was very loud.
