Smoke and Mirrors Issue 2 - Virtually A Summer's Day
Virtually A Summer's Day
by P. A. Brush
I sit in the darkened room, the soft glow of the monitor before me is the only light in the house. Nothing breaks the silence. After taking a few more swallows of that amber liquid that quiets the fever in my brain but makes my throat burn, I lift a wisp of gray hair from before my eyes and turn to face the computer. The antique keyboard is warm and comfortable under my hands. If only my dreams were as empty as my days life would be tolerable. Not pleasant, or the least bit worthwhile, but at least livable. But memory doesn't sleep, and without the liquor to damp it at night it comes alive and invades my dreams. If only I could suffer a mere nightmare! But no, all too often my dreams are the real images of the terrible past I want to leave behind and recreate at the same time. It is the only way I will ever see any of them again, and wanting that more than anything, I still can't pay the price of my dreams. You see, in spite of all that occurred I am still proud. Oh Arabella and Markus, forgiveness is too weak a word for what I have to ask of you! How could a man be as arrogant as I was, and as blind to the danger that I put us all in. If only I could pay for my conceit myself, but no, if there is a God it is crueler than that.
I watch my age-spotted hands on the keyboard as they call up the communications program and begin the nightly ritual that I long since gave up hoping would help to right some of the horrors that I perpetuated that January evening so long ago.
Those of you who still have your youth probably know something of what I felt. Knowing that I was different, special, could do more than others, and do it better. I was going to leave my mark on the world (and so I did, but in so awful a fashion that I could not speak of it to my closest friend).
All was light and laughter when the experiments began, and it stayed that way much longer than it should have. That is what deceived me. That something that appeared so innocent could have so much power, and be so vengeful still seems incomprehensible. It was just the next logical step in the exciting microcomputer revolution at the end of the millennium. The experiments with virtual reality were of special interest to me, and I must admit that I accomplished things in this field that have never been equalled. The price I have to pay for my success is the two silent boxes in this dark, dusty room where the two people who meant most to me in the world once sat.
I reached for the tattered postcard once again, and in the dim light reflected by my ancient monitor, read aloud the phone number shown in smudged black ink. "Take A Chance BBS" was embossed on the front of the card. "Most interesting," I thought, "indeed."
My hands trembled for just a moment and then my fingers swept the keys so expertly that individual motions were impossible to detect. I whispered, "Computer please dial now," and reached for my glass, waiting to see what would happen next.
All of my promises and all of my dreams merged for one flat instant when all was forgotten and time collapsed into trivia. I was young and excited for that second between DIALING and WAIT and Markus and Arabella grew dimmer and dimmer in the shadows of my room... The screen flickered and then went black except for the green characters in the center,
Who are you?
I typed,
Dr. Alfred Stringer
and pressed Enter.
The screen returned:
Thank you. One moment, please . . .
"Welcome to Take a Chance. You've stumbled upon one of the truly unique opportunities in today's modern society.
This electronic bulletin board is dedicated to enlightenment, encouragement, and excitement. Too many people in today's technological jungle feel isolated. They spend their days entering useless bits of information in computer terminals much like this one. This is the era of simulated realities, instantaneous travel, and globally networked environments.
Many people have advocated a return to the ways of simpler days. We at Take a Chance regard our modern society as a new opportunity, however. Take a Chance is an avenue for personal growth, wealth, and sexual satisfaction. In this information renaissance, more is available than at any other time in our past. The key is in finding your access to opportunity. With Take a Chance, we hope to provide that key.
Please, sit back, relax, and prepare yourself for a new adventure. In a moment, your journey into the world of Take a Chance will begin. We are sure it will be a truly rewarding experience. You may leave the world of Take a Chance at any time by typing "Stop", or pause your session by typing `p'. Type `help' for assistance.
Hit `enter' to continue, please . . .
"Useless bits of information," I echoed. Yes, that was what Markus had said when our virtual reality experiments had just begun and we were only defining universes and not immersing ourselves within them. I started, rubbed my eyes, and vowed to not get lost within my memories until I'd at least tried out this BBS.
I pressed enter, and watched a delightful menu print out on my screen. The options:
1. Enlightenment.
2. Intense Sexual Gratification.
3. Soul Mates.
4. Personal Wealth
5. Power and Fame.
6. Global Thermonuclear War
Enlightenment. Arabella often said that a new Renaissance was upon us, but that to partake of it, we must prepare to add to it. She was convinced that the term "enlightenment" referred to a state of mind and in fact, her insistence was what inspired me to propose our initial experiments.
I could hear my heart pounding as I reached for the "1" on the numeric keypad. I typed the "1," and then pressed Enter.
The screen cleared to black, and then an image which sent me careening into the depths of horror presented itself with utmost clarity on my screen: Four Doors. These doors had no description, no numbers, but each was a different color. They seemed to be suspended in space, and as soon as my mind registered "space," clouds appeared behind them. I wanted to turn off the machine and I wanted to try each door simultaneously. I could not resist the temptation to explore what was presented to me, yet I knew with certainty that each door was a virtual reality unknown to me and yet all too familiar in my worst nightmares.
In the end, I couldn't resist. I typed, "The Red One," and the red door within the universe of my screen slowly opened wide.
Behind the door was an intense, three-dimensional red grid. At its center was a silver, sexless figure. The figure approached and began to speak.
"Good evening, Dr. Stringer. Welcome to the world behind the Red Door. I am your guide--you may call me Derfla. You are here seeking enlightenment, and I must warn you: All enlightenment carries a price. Are you willing to accept the terms of this universe?"
I reached for the keyboard to respond, but my fingers had become silver, digitized images. I floated toward my guide, settling inside the virtual universe. I regarded the grid around us; I gazed for a long moment at the figure before me. We were mirrors of one another--silver and sexless. "Yes," I said, "I accept your terms."
"Very well, Doctor," it responded. "Follow me." The grid expanded, rotated, began to swirl. It formed a vortex with a dot of blue at the center. We swept toward the blue dot at a dizzying speed, the spinning of the virtual whirlpool increasing as we approached its center. We broke free of the vortex, and the blue dot expanded rapidly.
It was the earth, floating in a field of stars. We rushed toward it, the continents resolving themselves as we approached. We rushed nearer and nearer, toward North America, toward the eastern seaboard, toward Boston. I suddenly realized our destination, and with the speed of thought we settled before an apartment house in Cambridge. It was a place I hadn't seen in forty-five years. It was the place my torment started.
We passed through the walls of the building like ghosts, moving toward the large apartment in the back. In the apartment were three people--myself, as I had been at eighteen; Markus, my older brother and closest friend, and Arabella, the woman we both loved.
And I fall into melancholy, into thought and into memory. "Arabella... Arabella?" I think of Arabella. I see my Arabella. The fragrant maiden who the angels named--Whore! No! No, no. . . She was my friend. My sweet friend. My blessed friend.
"I am back there--in a rain storm. I'm rained upon. I am a rubella: a fellah without an umbrella, all because of Arabella.
"Arabella, Arabella--my silent Belle.
"I dwell in this cell where I fell. It's hell, this shell.
"Arabella--I worshipped you, mademoiselle. I cursed you as a Jezebel. I mocked God. I was an infidel. I cried at the highest decibel.
"I bellow like a noteless cello. I was yellow. I wouldn't say hello, it's me who needs you. I was jello.
"Arabella, I dream of your bella--ah--your belly. It's naked. I kiss it. It's delicious like deli jelly--and I read to you from Shelley.
"How could I? Arabella, not then, you belonged to another, who was my friend and brother too. What could a poor depressed, repressed fellah do?
"Over the years I've thought of you and little else. I've kept my jealousy to myself. Why now is all of this bursting forth? I am an old man. I know I am an old man. I am young. I am here. I am there. I am eighteen. I am sixty-three. My body is hard and lean and young. I feel hard and strong and want and need. I have the power to take. You, Arabella, are beautiful. But, oh, darn, darn, darn, Markus is still my brother."
These are my thoughts, only my thoughts. I dare not speak them aloud to myself, or to Arabella or to Markus.
Arabella sat curled up on the upholstered chair with a glass of wine in her hand. Her long curly red hair framed her delicate small face-- such a beautiful face with features so soft that they belied the intense intelligence within. She was laughing that easy laugh she always made available for one of Markus' risque jokes. He was so much better at telling jokes than I. I always screwed up the punch line. Markus was sitting on the couch opposite of Arabella and I was perched on the stool in the middle. We were having a wonderful time just as we did 45 years ago. Drinking, laughing, so full of promise and hope, ignorant of what lay ahead. God, I miss them so.
But this was the night that it all began, the night when we began to lay the foundations of a new level in the information renaissance that had swept the nation and the world--virtual reality. We had often talked about the promises of virtual reality and what rewards that could be realized for the betterment of humanity, but tonight we would embark upon the journey to a new plateau of awareness. A new development in virtual reality that not only gave the individual the perception of being in an artificially-generated environment, but also provided stimulus to the remaining senses of the human experience, i.e., senses of touch, taste and smell. A complete environment of escape from the present into alternate worlds without the use of chemicals or hypnosis.
Tonight, we began that journey to create a world that gave so much, but took much more in return.
Arabella's smile slowly faded into the prisms within her eyes, and she distractedly tapped a fingernail on the rim of her glass.
"Alfred, all of our preliminary tests indicate that our original premise was right on target. You can't isolate one specific incident to the contrary. So why are you so nervous?"
"I'm as excited about this as you and Markus. I just don't feel that we're ready to launch a human being into any of our pre-defined virtual realities. At best, they're too sketchy."
Markus recrossed his legs and rolled his eyes. "Alfie, you're wrong. Arabella re-defined the weight ratios, and every single result indicates success. You can't argue with Crayon!"
"I'm not arguing with the Cray. I just don't think we've thought of everything. And stop treating the Cray as though it were a real, thinking human being; you trust it too much."
Arabella stood up and began pacing the room. She looked like a caged animal, tense and ready to leap at the slightest provocation.
She suddenly stopped in front of the window, looked out into the snowy streets, and said, "Okay. Let's define our first human reality. Alfred is right, we've been playing with mice and it's time to develop the next level of depth. I say we begin our structure by defining the sense stimulation realities for, oh, a grassy park somewhere."
Markus and I exchanged silent nods, he walked over to the blackboard, and I flipped on the video-recorder and sat on the edge of the old oak desk. Arabella turned to face us both, and we all three felt electric, the adventure beginning all over again.
Markus reached up and pressed the "clear" button, and the blackboard first turned gray and then black, clean and ready. He leaned back and glanced at the paper supply, and then picked up his stylus.
"Arabella, you go first. Give me all the sensations a woman would detect in a grassy park." His stylus was poised over the blackboard, waiting for input.
I felt uncomfortable again. "Wait. We must refine this with empirical fact. Let's agree to make some preliminary definitions and then back them up by going to the grassy field and recording our sensations."
"Agreed." Markus smiled. "Always the skeptic, and rightly so."
"Right," Arabella grinned at me. "First, smell. Slightly ozone such as ten percent, and perhaps another ten percent sweetly mossy. I think another ten percent should include whatever trees are nearby, including their bark and if there are flowers on them, and add five percent for damp and humusy earth. We can refine these numbers later, oh and let's add two percent body talc, presuming awareness of self."
I was suddenly in agony. I looked at the Cray and began to back out of the room, painfully aware that this moment in history was the exact beginning of our disaster. Arabella's words continued to echo, and the three of them continued to define that grassy knoll, as my present self was swept out of the room and backward, weightless, through a red door.
"Tumbling through the crayon door, and for a canyon that seems to have no floor, I begin to fall like lead. Mists, sounds, and ghosts rethread dread in my sorehead. I've been a blockhead, I know. A bonehead. Never a hothead--still my forehead burns! What's ahead? More of what I dread?"
"Doctor Stringer!" Derfla snapped, breaking the spell. He was once more an image on a screen, and I was once more a flesh-and-blood entity.
"Why must we always return to the beginning?" I asked.
"The enlightenment you seek must begin with an acceptance of the causes of the disaster. In all the years you've suffered, you've yet to accept the full measure of your responsibility in what happened." Derfla softened his tone. "Doctor, you must accept what happened and your part in it before you can put it behind you."
"You're right, of course. May we begin again?" I asked.
"No, that door is now closed to you," my guide responded. "You must choose another door."
"Then I choose the yellow one," I said, and as it opened, my consciousness once again leaped into a virtual universe.
I and my silver companion sped along a landscape that strongly resembled the circuit diagram of a computer. A very powerful computer, it seemed, and I realized we were moving along the data pathways of the Cray system Markus had called Crayon.
We reached an output junction, and exploded into a meadow. Arabella, dressed in a gossamer gown of pure silver, stood gazing at the grass and flowers that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, and I could see the delicious curves of her breasts outlined by the sheer fabric. I felt a flash of arousal, followed immediately by a flash of guilt. She sighed, said, "Exit," and began to fade.
My silver guide and I also faded, rising into a room with a couch, medical monitors, and a terminal for Crayon. Arabella was regaining consciousness on the couch, as Markus monitored Crayon's output, and I monitored the medical displays.
Arabella sat up, and smiled. "Very close, guys. We still don't have the scents down, though. I could only smell the ozone, not the flowers."
"Neural induction has its limits," said the young Alfred. "We need some way to enhance the interface."
"Little brother, you can figure it out. You've put us on the right track with this direct neural stimulus. Programming Crayon for the environments is easy--converting those environments to a form our sensory nerves can directly access is difficult. But we're getting there!" Markus seemed so sure of himself and of us.
I had my doubts. I had my jealousies, too, as he bent to kiss Arabella.
I knew that if I wanted to change anything, to recreate my present and future, that I would have to stay in this past, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I just couldn't.
Once more I tore myself out of the simulation--a trembling, sweat-soaked human in an old leather armchair, sitting before an obsolete video monitor. The expressionless face of Derfla regarded me from the screen. We watched each other for a long moment, human and video image, before he spoke.
"Dr. Stringer--Alfred, we must continue. You were very close just then, before you abandoned the scene." He swept his arm backward to the two remaining doors.
I shuddered. I'm an old man. I don't have the capacity for too many shocks at one time, at least not any more. But I felt compelled to play out this little drama, perhaps to find what I once lost. I took a deep breath. "The blue, please," and once again found myself moving at lightspeed, a silver image in the mind of Crayon.
We were pioneers in a technology that would become the standard by the end of the twentieth century--and be outlawed a scant ten years later. The crude neural induction system I designed became a direct cortical implant. People could feed information directly into their synapses. The world was a better place . . . for a while.
Too many people began to live in a virtual reality. The real world became a pale imitation of the scenarios they designed. The first deaths took the world by surprise--locked in a world of their own making, the victims died of dehydration just a few feet from the kitchen taps. The disappearances were even more startling.
These were my thoughts as I sped along the circuitry of Crayon, the Cray mainframe that housed our early programs. It was on display in the Smithsonian now, and this electronic bulletin board had somehow accessed it.
Derfla and I left the Cray, travelling along the cable to the neural induction array that a young Alfred Stringer was working on. We entered his hands, his mind.
Goddamn William Shakespeare. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? shall I create thee a summer's day? Shall I make THEE a summer's day? When I heard Markus muttering these hackneyed sonnets to Arabella, I began to lay my plans. They wanted the virtual reality of a summer's day? Well how about I make Markus into a summer's day? Arabella could only love a summer's day so far, no matter how beautiful and temperate.
I began studying wet ware, and biosensors, everything having to do with biological components of electronic systems.
Everything worked perfectly. We all three "went in" wet wired through the contacts most people would have permanently installed to directly access their cortexes at the end of the 20th century. Arabella and myself were standing in a beautiful park. Markus was nowhere to be seen. She wasn't too upset at first. I reassured her that it was probably a hardware problem--a malfunctioning line or jack, and that Markus would be sitting in the computer room when we got home--fuming over missing our first outing. In the meantime I basked in the glory of her undivided attention. We strolled down the lawn, and paddled our feet in a little pond, and fed some squirrels. Both of us marvelled at the reality we were experiencing. We were so proud of our work. I was especially proud, because I thought I knew exactly what happened to Markus, and knew that now Arabella would be all mine.
But she kept saying "I can't believe Markus isn't here! It just feels like he should be here."
And indeed, I felt Markus's presence strongly. Especially by one large live oak tree in the middle of the park. Right where I sent him.
When we finally exited the program and she found Markus's empty contact-cluster sitting on the floor she was distraught. Then I pointed to the time. What had seemed minutes to us, and taken slightly over 12 hours.
"Markus is probably at home sleeping, or getting something to eat somewhere."
"No, He went with us didn't he? You know something you aren't telling me!"
"Really, Arabella, I'm sure that you are overreacting. You call his house, and I will look through the house here."
I wandered upstairs calling his name. My heart was full. Arabella was mine at last, my brother was gone forever. When I got back to the comp room Arabella was gone. There was a note to me on the screen of the small lap-top computer that just said.
"I've gone looking for Markus."
At first I assumed that she went to Markus's home. Then I saw the program on the screen of the Cray, and realized that Markus's cable now ended in Arabella's chair. She had re-executed the virtual reality program using Markus's terminal. Now they were both a mere summer's day in the virtual reality we had created.
No matter how many times I tried to go back to that summer day I couldn't find it. I began to feel that Markus and Arabella were playing games with me. Leading me on a chase through the microcircuitry, and laughing like children behind my back. They obviously had the ability to change the virtual realities from within because I accessed the same programs to find alien landscapes, arctic winters, and sometimes total blackness. I always felt them nearby, but never managed to connect.
They were gone, and they'd left me behind. They were dead, and I had killed them. Guilt drove me out of the program once again.
As we faced each other now, I recognized my guide. Derfla--Alfred. He was me, I was him. He was the part of me I left behind with my betrayal, the part that reported two missing persons to the Boston police. I knew where they were, though, or at least what was left of them.
"Let's go for the last door." I said, and allowed myself to be swept through on a tide of electrons.
I was sitting in the den once again. But I couldn't remember if this was real or created. There was only one thing left to try, and I knew there was no going back once I tried it. I picked up the cluster that I had rigged for Markus so long ago and slipped it onto my head.
It was a summer's day in the park. Markus and Arabella were feeding the ducks at the pond. Arabella turned and looked up at me as I approached.
"Oh look, Markus, he's finally here!"
"How long has it been?" Markus asked as he turned and laughed.
"Forty-five years." I began to sob.
Arabella came and held me. As my sobs slowed, I began to beg them to forgive me. I looked up and saw Arabella scowling at Markus.
"You'd better tell him. I told you it was a cruel thing to do!"
"Hey, he was going to turn me into a tree! Listen, little brother, don't feel bad. You didn't do anything to us. We've been fine. I saw what you were doing, and wrote a different virtual reality program working on a closed loop and taking feedback directly from your subconscious. You see, you've never left your virtual reality. Wherever you've been--whatever you've done from the moment you plugged into that Cray was created by your own devious mind. It may have seemed like 45 years, but in real time it's only been about an hour. I had it working off a timer in the den."
"What are you saying Markus? You mean that you and Arabella have been sitting around the park here while I've been suffering the tortures of hell for killing you both?"
"Well, the short answer is yes. But remember that whatever tortures you suffered you also created for yourself. Your conscience just wasn't up to fratricide, little brother, and I guess we both knew it at heart. "
I didn't know what to feel. Relief, anger, and dismay fought for attention in my psyche. Before I could say another thing Arabella spoke.
"Why, it looks like rain, did either of you program rain into this reality?"
"Hey, you did remember to turn on the surge protector didn't you?" Markus asked.
A huge bolt of lightning flashed out of the sky and hit the live oak tree that I was once convinced was my brother Markus, and everything went black.
# # #
When the smell began, the neighbors called the police department. A few firemen and cops were casting about in the ruins of what was obviously a long-abandoned house. There were no records of the owner, or owners, and it was a bit of a mystery what should be done with the house and lot. They found a room full of ancient electronic equipment, and what was left of the body of a man seated in an old leather armchair.
"Jesus, Al, look at all of these antiques! They must be worth a fortune to a collector. There's a keyboard and a two- dimensional monitor, and look--printers that use paper."
"Yeah, and look at this little dandy." Al said holding up a dusty cable with a nasty looking bundle of wires on the end.
"Wow, bioware. That's been outlawed for at least 20 years. I wonder what happened here?"
"We may never know, you know." Behind the two men, a single line blinked on the ancient monitor:
NO CARRIER
-end-
Contributors: Lucia Chambers, Michael Hahn, David Holloway, Franchot Lewis, and John Wallace. Final edit by Michael Hahn.
Copyright (c) 1993 Pen and Brush
