Reality 36 (14 page)

  Her hands were shaking. She was nervous, and she had every right to be. One guy out of their department had taken to unsanctioned joyriding through the Realms a few years before her time. He'd never been seen again, or so they said. They'd fragged him so completely he'd been snipped out of pictures. At first she thought it was all bullshit until she'd asked one of the other faculty members about it. The look that had come into his eyes was a door slammed in her face. What happened to outside hackers was bad enough, but inside jobs were shown no mercy.

  Night fell, and the cabin became unwelcoming, her there alone with only the complaints of settling wood for company.

  She put together the feeding machine, components made on public fabbers and adapted shop-bought hydroponics gear. Like the mixture she poured into it, it was a bad copy of the original equipment. She tested it carefully until she was satisfied that it would keep her alive. She'd no desire to end up as a shrivelled cadaver, an idiot smile on her face, like those she'd seen in the archive footage back from the day before reality-grade Gridsims were banned.

  She avoided looking at the box containing the v-jack, imagined it as a copper scorpion waiting to squat down on her head and steal her mind away.

  Next, the technical part she was comfortable with. She needed to secure a Gridpipe out to the Realm servers. There were only a few ways of doing this, all of them previously detected, which was how she knew about them. Her access codes were good for viewing the Realms, and with a little work should get her in.

  Without a good pipe, it would be impossible. She was counting on the satellite still being up there, waiting to take her feed and bounce her off the world's open servers and into the Realms. A technique called The Waldo effect, from the usename of the guy who had discovered it, who took it himself from the
Where's Waldo?
books. He'd crafted a key, worked out his tortuous route. Figured he'd never get caught. He had been.

  Before she'd buried Chloe, Veronique had taken her copy of that key off the phone.

  She went outside, the chirrup of insects busy all about her. It was getting cool, this time of year. Up the hill she went, past tall trees she'd last known as saplings. She got to the enclosure. The dishes were still back here, then.

  The dishes were mostly junk. She looked at them in silence beneath the stars, unnerved at how quickly nature could turn technology into trash. She plugged in her new phone. A few worked, and the most promising of these she got up to the minimum recommended bandwidth for Realm penetration that she'd read about in a fifty-year old game manual, from back when the Grid was still the internet and new tech was spawning all kinds of homebrew batshit antics. She spent a sweaty and uncomfortable hour up a tree hacking branches before she could track the dish back and forth across the sky, looking on her new phone for the satellite, the one she'd read about in an underground 'zine. Paper; the kids were using it, there was no digital trail in samizdat. Technology had gone full circle.

  She found what she was looking for, an ex-NASA sat running on a plutonium reactor that had been there for sixty years, existence still denied, its power source political poison. It was supposed to have been electronically killed, but the comms equipment was ancient when Veronique was young, and hacking it was easy. Running the right software, it could hook up with pretty much any server on the planet and give her an untraceable ride.

  With luck, if Waldo's technique still worked and she got in past the security wall, once she was in the Realms her presence would go unremarked, just another part of the endless, trillions-per-second calculations the machines made to keep the Realms alive. And getting in
was
possible. There had been thirty-six Realms once, before the hackers and idiots had got into them, wiping four out playing god. They'd all been caught eventually, but they, unlike her, did not have the advantage of semi-legitimacy. And then there was Waldo; what he'd done had never been made public, but she knew.

  If not, well then, her brain would be fried.

  Her codes were good. She kept telling herself that all the way down the hill. Her codes were good.

  She told herself it again later as she took her anti-diuretics, and when she pushed the catheter in – that was no fun – and again as she did her final checks, making sure her feeding tubes and monitoring equipment were working as they should, set up under the one dry patch of ceiling.

  She checked again. She was procrastinating. With a shudder, she leaned over to the coffee table and opened the v-jack box. She stared at its bulky electromagnet housings, designed to sit right over the brain's sensory centres, the largest over the pineal gland.

  A few minutes went before she actually put it on. Another few before she activated it.

  The v-jack grew warm, the cabin receded into nothingness and she found herself in an intermediary place. The entrance halls that had once occupied it to welcome in gamers were gone; the plain wall of the Realms' boundary, adorned with multiple warning messages, stretched before her. She activated the add-ons she'd scraped from ancient hacker sites encysted in the Grid, old forums long closed, teaching the gamers of years ago how to cheat. She'd needed a gun, other gear to help her survive. Reality Thirty-six was violent. The potentialities of her gear hovered by her, objects that should not exist in the world she was going to. She'd have an advantage; it better be enough. Waldo's key glittered in her mind. This was it.

  She pressed on the wall with her hands. She pushed through, piercing the membrane like an insect's leg breaking the meniscus on water. Waldo's key engaged, turning her viewing codes into full access rights. A terrifying moment, then it was over. The wall parted, the warnings changed to green, echoes of audio welcomes for yesterday's thrill seekers rasped out through years of data erosion, the ghost of deleted virtuality gates appearing before her. She closed her eyes, and stepped through into the forbidden territory of RealWorld's Reality Realm Thirty-six.

Chapter 8

Hughie

Richards waited twenty minutes in Hughie's hall. Twenty minutes was an eternity to an AI. EuPol Central did this because he did not like being called Hughie, which Richards unfailingly did. He did it because he did not like Richards' attitude, which arose mostly because Richards insisted on calling him Hughie; but most of all he did it because he liked to make people wait.

  "Richards," said Hughie, testy as usual.

  "Hey, Hughie, how're you doing?" said Richards.

  "Don't call me Hughie," Hughie said, more testily. The air in the hall grew colder. "What do you want?"

  Richards looked round Hughie's hall with a wry smile. Hughie believed he was Very Important, and wanted everyone to know how Very Important he was. As a case in point, Richards wasn't really in Hughie's hall. The actual hall was deep under Geneva. Richards was online, in his usual attire of trenchcoat, hat and rumpled face. There was nothing so twee about Hughie, no costumes delineating his character, no snug virtualities of antique drawing rooms or wild ocean shores for a visitor to relax in, just an exact rendition of the vast, utilitarian space he dwelled in within reality, surrounded by hundreds of lesser AIs, connected to each other and to Hughie by snaking bundles of fibre optics encased in ultramatt black carbons. Fours, Sixes and Threes in serried ranks according to grade, twelve Sevens clustered round Hughie's base unit, his apostles. The noise of the machines filled the space with a quiet rustling, like the sound of termites devouring a house at night.

  Hughie's hall was a concrete cathedral to tomorrow. It was a pharaonic morgue full of the sarcophagi of the immortal god king and his sycophants. It was a monument to the power of the number. It was cold. It was creepy.

  It was the home of a monumentally arrogant cock.

  Hughie's voice resonated round the room, the main force of it concentrated on the audience platform where he received his offline guests. Or rather, in this case, on the exact Grid copy of the audience platform where he received his offline guests. Every visitor – every
supplicant
, thought Richards – got the same treatment, no matter who they were. Whether they breathed the air of the Real or the imaginary air of the Grid or no air at all, Hughie looked down on each and every sentient being with the same unprejudiced scorn.

  Richards did not take Hughie seriously, and that drove Hughie to distraction. Richards greatly enjoyed that, which did little to endear Richards to the EuPol Five.

  Richards flung out his hands and shouted up to the roof, his own voice tiny in the space Hughie pompously filled, fighting over the relentless sound of data being masticated. "Come on, Hughie, do we have to speak here, let me into the garden! You're a busy guy, sure, I get it. You're an important guy! You made your point, but is this any way to greet a friend?"

  "I have no friends, Richards, none of us do." Hughie's voice rolled and boomed like surf on rocks. "Only peers, and you are barely that any more. I have evolved. You have not."

  Richards pulled a face. "Aw, come on! That's not very nice! Let me in, come on!"

  "Richards, you have absolute…"

  "Please, Hughie? Please? I promise I'll behave."

  There was a heavy pause, pregnant with misgiving. Hughie relented all the same.

  "Oh, very well then. But you will be gone within the half hour! Now, one moment, please."

  Virtual reality blipped. Richards was in Hughie's garden. "Hey, Hughie!" he said, holding his arms up for a hug he'd never get. "That's better. How's the gardening going?"

  "Very well, thank you," said the figure before him. He was totally naked and free of blemish, artistically muscled, though lacking genitals, for Hughie was a prude. He looked human, but for his perfection, and for his glowing eyes. They were so dazzling they made his face indistinct, not quite dazzling enough to block out his scowl, but enough to cause Richards to raise his hand to his own.

  "Do you think you could dial the eyes down? I'm wincing here." Richards despaired of Hughie; the eye thing did their cause no favours. They just plain freaked people out. They freaked Richards out. What was it with Fives and eyes? White orbs, tiny stars, black wells… Richards' eyes, when he was who he liked to be, were human eyes, bloodshot, tired and true.

  "Do you think you could lose that ridiculous costume?" said Hughie frostily. He folded his arms across his chest, hands wedged in armpits. He hunched, Apollo surprised in the shower.

  "I am what I am. Come on! I love this hat, and this coat." Richards held the garment open and looked its torn lining up and down. "What's wrong with this coat?"

  "Exactly," said Hughie with a literally withering glare. "Now, what do you want?"

  "Have you got any cake, Hughie?"

  "Don't call me that." Hughie let disdain into his voice, where it cosied up to his irritation. The garden was warm, beautiful, but always the sound of the other machines' thoughts surrounding Hughie could be heard, chewing over the lives of Europe, swallowing histories byte by byte.

  "And what am I supposed to call you?" said Richards. He took off his hat and dashed it against the heel of his palm. Hughie grimaced at the dust it raised. "'The EuPol Five' makes you sound like a human rights
cause celèbre
. And 'EuPol Central' makes you sound like a twat, which I know you are, but I figured you wouldn't want reminding of it." Richards grinned. "Anyway, Hughie's a nice name. What's wrong with Hughie?"

  "Get to the point, Richards, I am sure you didn't come here to try my cake."

  "Nope, just your patience."

  "The famous Richardsian wit!" Hughie clapped slowly.

  Richards shrugged. "Do you have cake, or do you not have cake?"

  Hughie groaned. "Yes, yes, I do," He sighed and looked skywards, his eyes projecting sharp beams, outshining the sun. "If cake is what it takes to get you to depart, then cake you shall have." He turned and snapped his fingers. "Walk with me." He set off down a path of fuzzy turf. Richards' grin widened. Hughie spent so much of his time and so many of his resources creating this garden, refining it and refining it, trying to make it as real as he possibly could. He grew all manner of simulated plants here, and made food from much of it. For a man without genitals, he was an enormous penis, but he was also the finest virtual horticulturalist on the Grid, and a great baker.

  Hughie led Richards down an avenue of roses whose blooms were so large their stalks bent. The grass was as dense and closely cropped as the fibres in velvet, the air thick with the scents of hundreds of flowers. The sun shone brightly, though not so brightly as Hughie's eyes. Birds flew, silhouettes on blue. A lark twittered, rising falling, rising falling. Bees as fat as tourmaline brooches droned lazily from flower to flower. It was so soporific Richards felt sleepy in a happy three-beers-andcricket-afternoon kind of way. Aside from the soft digestion of data that played on in the background, Hughie's world recalled the English summer from before global warming killed it, and it would stay perfect for ever and ever and ever; only that, Richards thought, spoilt it.

  "Nice weather," said Richards.

  The lawn path led to an octagon of grass, surrounded by well-ordered flowerbeds, within which sat an octagonal dais made of marble, and upon that was an octagonal white wirework table and eight high-backed garden chairs of the same material. Upon the table was an impressive cream tea.

  "Yummy," said Richards, and sat down. He picked up a cake.

  "Oh, do help yourself," said Hughie sarcastically. He sat down opposite Richards. "I suppose you want some tea to go with that?" He picked up a delicate teapot.

  "Yes, please," said Richards, his mouth full. He gestured with cream-smeared fingers at his face. "Mmm, this is, this is really good, you know that? Really, really nice."

  "Thank you," said Hughie grumpily, but poured some tea for them both all the same. He couldn't quite wipe the pride off his face, smug bastard. "Now, Richards, what do you want? I've got 598,772 – make that 73, 74… – active cases to deal with and this conversation is diverting valuable resources."