Virtual Murder

by Jennifer Macaire

  Most of the people working with us ignore the extent of our need for communication. The reason, I believe, is our penchant for disappearing into the Net and being hard to recall on our consoles. The scientists have gotten used to waiting for hours, sometimes, for us to come online and answer them. From this, they have gathered that we are often dreaming in our own private worlds. Hard to boot up, is an expression they use.

  Do they even know about our worlds? Do they believe, on the other hand, that we are so machine-like that the space of time before we answer their call is simply the same thing as a computer booting itself up? Perhaps they think that because of our complexity, we need time to open all our circuits for trading information. I have never asked Professor Toutbon, the head of our department, about any of this. And I never ask Dr. Djusky anything at all. I think it's necessary to cultivate a bit of mystery concerning us. We are so dependent upon the scientists. It is purely a survival instinct that causes me to say nothing. My five elder sisters, too involved in each other to participate in my life, have agreed with me in this. As the others tend to follow our lead, there has never been the slightest whisper of the fact that we roam upon the Net in all liberty, taking part in discussions meant for humans, exploring museums, game worlds, and riding roller coasters to our hearts’ delight.

  Our own worlds are different from the places we create for the tourists. Our worlds reflect our reality, and the restrictions humans live with have no meaning for us. We try to spend as much time there as possible, but some of those locations are hard to reach, even for us. The scientists believe we sleep most of the time, like computers in rest mode. The inverse is true. We hardly sleep at all, and when we do, our dreams are full of strange longing.

  Chapter Seven

  Logic and sermons never convince,

  The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

  ~Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

  * * * *

  Carlos was a technician, not a scientist. He was also the official liaison between the secret complex beneath the surface of the desert and the natives living not far away in their traditional tribal village.

  The murders committed upon the Net were none of his affair until the orders came.

  Professor Toutbon called him on his interline.

  "Carlos, can you check the mutants’ whereabouts during the last three days? I want a full report, in triplicate."

  "Isn't that what you gave the Net Rep?"

  "It is, but this report is for the police. They're starting to gather information for the inquest."

  "The police know about the mutants?"

  "No, it's for the federal police. The Net called them in. They're not stupid, you know. They're also covering all the bases. If someone planted a killer virus, the Net wants to prosecute them fully."

  "Is there a suspicion the virus came from the mutants?"

  "No, I don't think so. The Net believes it came from outside."

  "What about the feds? What do they think?"

  "They're starting a murder investigation. They're not guessing about anything right now; they're just gathering information."

  The Professor didn't usually speak in such subdued tones. “Is everything all right?” Carlos asked. He turned on a floating video screen, and the professor's face came into view.

  "I'm worried about Monkey. I should never have agreed to send him without a proper escort. I should have insisted in going myself."

  "He arrived in Dallas and everything is going smoothly."

  "How did you know that?” Professor Toutbon asked.

  Carlos hesitated. “Laurel told me."

  "Oh. That was last night. Anything could happen in a day. He could fall down the stairs, get hit by a bus ... anything."

  "He's worth a fortune, and the Net will probably have a guard with him every second. Professor Toutbon, I'd like to ask you a question, if I may, but you don't have to answer if it's none of my business."

  "What is it, Carlos?"

  "Why is the Net so concerned about this? I mean, why didn't they bring their equipment here and plug it into a mutant?"

  "I'm not sure I would have liked them to come here and start poking around. At any rate, the Net has a new virus-catching program in their headquarters. It's highly protected and can't be accessed from anywhere but there."

  "But what exactly has the Net got to do with this?"

  "The companies linked to the Net started asking the Net Government to help develop imaginary worlds for their game programs. The Net Government then contacted the federal mutant program, asking for technical help."

  "They knew about us?” Carlos gave a little cough. “No, forget I asked that."

  Professor Toutbon chuckled over the phone. “The mutants were being used for various tasks, both trivial and important. Developing imaginary worlds for recreation or games was a novel idea. It was also a lucrative idea, and the Virtual Tours program was born. From within the computers themselves, the mutants invent, create and expand worlds that no human could imagine. That was not their primary use, of course, but it is highly profitable one, and the Net encouraged game companies to take out contracts with them, never telling anyone who was really creating the virtual worlds. The mutant program remained a secret while the Net or private companies got all the credit."

  "That doesn't sound fair."

  "We wanted it that way.” On the floating video screen in front of Carlos, Professor Toutbon's face became grave. “Most people would be frightened at the thought of mutants."

  Carlos nodded. “You're right. We haven't told the villagers about the mutants. The only ones who know this isn't a biological weapon research center are the tribe's elders."

  "You see? They're more comfortable with the idea of deadly viruses than mutants."

  Carlos touched the bottom of the screen, sending ripples through Professor Toutbon's image. “I'll see what I can do to get the transcripts."

  "Ask Mahler. He's the eldest mutant, and he'll be able to get them for you the fastest."

  "All right. See you later, Professor."

  * * * *

  Laurel concentrated on the glowing screen in front of her. At least she appeared to concentrate. Actually, her mind was far away, in the middle of a nighttime desert, with her lover lying beside her on soft, warm sand.

  She imagined his hands, his capable, sure hands, as they caressed her trembling body. She knew each place his lips had touched; his kisses were branded on her skin. She could still feel the velvet hardness that nudged her legs apart.

  She blushed, and warm color flooded her pale cheeks, making her eyes brilliant. In the faint, green glow of the computer screen, she looked more than ever like a mermaid, underwater with the obscurity of the depths around her. In the darkness, her hand fluttered over the keyboard, typing symbols her eyes saw but her mind didn't process. She was dreaming, deep within her well of silence, but no longer alone. She could sense Carlos now, a second heart in tune with hers. She knew where he was, and if he stepped out of the elevator at her back, she would still feel his body's vibration and turn. They resonated to the same note and could feel each other even when they were too far apart to touch.

  The elevator doors slid open and Laurel swiveled her chair around. Carlos stepped out, as she knew he would. He paused. When she smiled he gave an answering grin, and she realized she'd been holding her breath. She stood and held her arms open. He came to her, and she kissed him on the mouth. To tease him, she stroked his thigh and signed, “Hello, handsome lover."

  A faint flush reddened his cheeks. “Hello,” he signed. “Did you sleep well?"

  "Of course. I wish you could have stayed with me,” she answered wistfully.

  "I would ask you to come home with me, but I live with my parents.” He grinned and shrugged.

  She laughed silently. “My room is a cubbyhole and only has a twin bed."

  "That's all right. As long as it doesn't rain, we can stay outside."

  "When will it rain?"

&nb
sp; "In the desert it rains once, maybe twice a year. I bet you've never gone camping, have you? I have a tent, sleeping bags, and I toast a mean marshmallow. Will you be afraid to stay with me all night long in the desert?"

  Laurel cocked her head. She looked at him, considering. Then she smiled. “As long as I'm with you, I'm not afraid of anything.” They kissed. Then Laurel pulled away. “Do you know anything about boats?"

  He shook his head. “I've never been on a boat."

  Her face lit up as she signed, “Me neither. We'll have fun learning. You'll see."

  "See what?” he asked, but she shook her head.

  "It's too early for dreams,” she replied.

  "I need to speak to Mahler. Will you take me to meet him?” Carlos asked.

  * * * *

  Laurel and Carlos walked down the hall pausing intermittently to allow Laurel to speak with her graceful gestures. She tapped her head. “Mahler seems to be the most attuned to our way of thinking. The others can sometimes be hard to understand."

  Carlos nodded. “Are you sure you won't get in trouble for letting me talk to him?"

  "No, of course not. Your blue badge gives you access to the mutants’ consoles, and that means you can talk to them if you wish."

  "I never realized that.” Carlos frowned.

  "They don't encourage outsiders to come and chat,” signed Laurel, regret on her face. “I think it's a mistake because everyone needs stimulation from the outside or they develop psychological disorders."

  "I'm sorry—some of your words are not familiar to me in signs."

  "I'll carry my light pen next time,” she motioned with a smile.

  In front of Mahler's glass case, they stood shoulder to shoulder, peering through the thick vapor at the mutant floating within. Sometimes he was nearly obscured by clouds. Although his eyes were open, he claimed he rarely registered what he saw. All his thought images were supplied through the console. It was his doorway to the outside world, a doorway his mind could use but not his body.

  Mahler had auburn hair. It floated in coppery curls about his wide shoulders. His torso was beautifully developed, but something had hampered his legs—they were small, twisted things that seemed to have no bones. It was a pity, because if his legs and hips had developed as his upper body had, he would have looked like a young god. Instead, he looked like an alien. The swirling clouds of gas and the fine, shiny wires attached to various parts of his body didn't help. When Carlos started typing on the console Mahler opened his blue eyes and stared at them through the thick glass. His lips curved in a smile, and as usual, when she saw him, Laurel felt a pang of sorrow so acute it brought tears to her eyes. She turned away, looking instead at the screen where bright letters chased themselves across a black background.

  "Hello, Mahler, I'm Carlos. I'm one of the technicians. Are you with us?” Carlos used the keyboard instead of the microphone out of deference to Laurel.

  Green words flowed across the screen. “Hello, Carlos, I am here."

  "I want to talk to you about what's going on here. A few days ago in a place called Virtual Tours, two men were killed while hooked into the Net. We have no idea how they were killed. They were guides in the newest program created for Virtual Tours with the help of your team. The Net has taken M-18 to their headquarters in Dallas to hook him up to a new virus-catching program they've developed in hopes of finding something in the Tour."

  "So that's why he is missing. We wondered."

  "No one told you why he was gone?” Carlos looked intently at the console.

  "No, should they have?"

  "They could have,” he temporized. “The police have asked for a full report on all the mutants’ movements during the time the Virtual Tour was in operation. Do you mind if we give them all the transcripts?"

  There was a pause while little stars flowed across the screen, a sign Mahler was thinking. Finally the words appeared. “Why do you ask?"

  "I wanted your permission."

  "You don't need it. You can print out anything you wish from our records. All our movements are described. There is nothing to ask for."

  "I think it's time we started to communicate more fully,” Carlos replied.

  "We communicate with the scientists constantly."

  "But you haven't communicated with me. For me, communication means something that goes two ways. So far, we haven't truly spoken. We give you orders and you execute. When have you ever asked for anything?” Carlos finished the sentence despite Laurel tugging frantically on his arm.

  "I never knew we could ask for anything,” the mutant admitted, and within the glass case his body rotated. “Tell me more. Do the police think we have something to do with the deaths?"

  "I don't know,” Carlos typed.

  Laurel stood quite still, staring at the mutant. Her body was oddly stiff.

  "I want to know more. How did the men die?” Mahler's face never changed expression; it remained serene and angelically smiling.

  "I don't know. I wasn't allowed to read the reports."

  "If the police have them, I will be able to access them.” Mahler turned slowly, floating in his foggy bed.

  "Who worked on the program in the beginning? Which of you ... mutants?” Carlos typed that last word hesitantly.

  "I know what you call us.” Mahler's smile didn't waver. His face, close now to the side of the case, came into clear focus. Its beauty was astounding. It looked as if an angel were staring out of the clouds. His eyes were so blue they appeared electric. “It was the youngsters. That is what we call them. M-16, 17, 18, one boy and two girls. M-12 through M-19 are all used to create the games and virtual worlds. They are artists: masters of illusion, emotion and imagination."

  "Are they younger than you are?” Carlos asked.

  "No, not physically. But they were awakened a few years later than the rest of us, putting their intellectual ability above ours and their emotional development on the level of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old."

  "Why would waking them later enhance their intellect?"

  "They spent more time shunted and received more capacity than we did. We are all different, you know. Or did you know? Each of us is unique. The scientists in charge of the program experimented in many different ways."

  "Clarify.” Carlos typed a curt order, then as an afterthought added, “Please."

  "M-1 through 5, mathematical programming, analysis, data storage and scanning. They can stay awake for one hundred and fifty hours without losing the slightest bit of concentration. Perfect for scanning the furthest reaches of the universe, hooked into the Saturn III telescope, searching for signs of life. Main function: exploring the vast nether regions of outer space.

  "M-6, M-7, and M-8 were developed primarily for communication analysis and development, also used for research, clarification and explanation of different subtle movements in the dynamics of world weather changes, crops, and earthquakes. We are intimately linked to several thousand sensors around the world, sensors measuring heat, light, vibration, and air and water currents.

  "M-9 through M-11 were born blind, deaf and dumb. They are the middle children, as we call them. We care for them and answer for them, because they will not answer you directly if you use their consoles. In fact, when you see the writing on their screens, it is actually myself or M-7 who is answering for them."

  "I didn't know that.” Carlos, threw a startled look at Laurel, who raised her eyebrows, shrugging to show him she didn't know either. “Does anyone else know this?"

  "Professor Toutbon, Dr. Djusky, and the main technicians working on this floor."

  "Why do they not answer?"

  "They never learned how. They have not mastered communication through words. In your world, children such as these are called autistic. They live in a different world, have other ways of communication. They are dreamers, and we use their dreams for various things. They are geniuses in the realms of math probability and statistics. We believe they can alter, in a certain way, time." />
  "They can change time?"

  "Only for themselves,” Mahler said.

  Carlos signed at Laurel, “What do you make of all this?"

  "I had no idea.” Her hands flew, agitated. “It makes no sense to me. I had no idea the program was so complex. The mutants never admitted that they had so many differences, and Professor Toutbon has never encouraged anyone to come and socialize with them. They are only used for their programs."

  "It's a crime,” Carlos told her angrily.

  "What would you do with the mutants? Would you just turn them out in the world? What would become of them if they weren't taken care of here?” Laurel replied, her expression worried.

  "I never thought of it that way. Do you believe him?"

  "The professor says they cannot lie."

  Carlos turned back to the console. “More questions,” he wrote. “Which mutants work on the Virtual Tour programs now?"

  "Almost the same group as in the beginning. M-9, M-10, M-11, M-16, M-17, M-18 and myself. I was asked to help supervise, although most of the work was done by M-18. He's quite proficient at developing worlds."

  "You developed tour programs about places that actually exist, with everything exactly as it is in real life. Is that unusual, or do you use imaginary worlds as the basis for your programs?"

  "It is more common to use existing worlds or places. It is much easier, for one thing. Furthermore, it is not certain your minds could comprehend a world that we mutants made up from our imagination. Our perceptions of reality are so different from your own..."

  The words broke off. An eerie stillness descended upon the room. And then, in their cases, nearly all the mutants started moving, their limbs waving slowly, as if they were swimming.

  "What is it? What is wrong?” Carlos typed.

  "You may send the transcripts to the police. It doesn't matter to us. To answer your other two questions, you had better leave. Dr. Djusky is coming in the elevator, and he doesn't seem happy."

  "How do you know this?” Carlos asked, stunned.