by David Brin
Hamish grinned at the security officers. They seemed typical, from bulked physiques to their heavy specs, immune to jamming. One gave Hamish a glance and a short nod. The other emitted soft sounds while virt-navigating with tooth-taps and grunts, all without moving his folded arms.
There wasn’t the slightest sign that Hamish interested them. Of course, they might be good actors. But doubtful.
“Well, Mr. Brookeman?” murmured the rippling voice near his ear.
“This will be interesting. Promise.”
Hamish hesitated. Then he grabbed another skewer before wandering nonchalantly back down the aisle. His choice really was a foregone conclusion. Curiosity was as much a part of his DNA as gleeful pessimism laced his work. God does not tempt men beyond their ability to resist, went a Catholic doctrine, one he could cite in his own defense, if this turned out to be a test. I must find out what’s going on.
“… of course, old-time aristocracies did allow some infusion from below.” The speaker’s laser-grabber pushed illustration blimps around, showing images of men in chainmail and women in courtly attire. “Brave foot soldiers might win battle honors and thus climb social levels. Beautiful women married upward, or gained intermediate status as mistresses.…”
Hamish sat down across the aisle from his old position. While stripping the skewer and chewing, he felt with his other hand along the cushion … and found a tiny bulge in the fabric. It pushed aside, exposing what felt like a many-folded scrap of paper that tugged easily from its niche.
“Great,” resumed the voice near his right ear. “Now slip out the lens and use it. If it’s difficult you might do it in the loo. There are no security cams there.”
Hamish frowned. He could feel the outlines of a soft disc, under the paper folds. I hate these. Modern kids, naturally, took them for granted. Anybody could have perfect vision, nowadays, yet they kept shoving things into their eyes, viewing the world through artificial layers. Of course, whoever planted this thing for Hamish would already know his publicly stated grouchiness. They would also know that he did use contaicts from time to time. When he had to.
All right. I can do it. And without having to hide in the bathroom, you patronizing twits.
With his left hand carefully out of sight, Hamish freed the lens from its paper container and balanced it, concave side up. Try not to drop it. Even the Swiss don’t keep their floors clean enough for aiware.
Pretending to choke a little, on a piece of pork, he bent over, covering his mouth in order to cough a few times … while pushing up one eyelid and poking the little actiplastic disc into place. Perhaps too roughly—he was out of practice. It had been months. Hamish’s left eye stung as it blinked, offended by the unwelcome presence. For a minute, while tears flowed, that side of the world was a blur. Meanwhile the speaker kept droning on.
“… some African tribes required that chiefs pick brides from poor clans. And Jews of medieval Europe, lacking an aristocracy based on land or military might, grounded their elite on scholarly accomplishments. The brightest young rabbis, even low-born, married daughters of the rich, with well known genetic consequences. As were repercussions in cultures where priestly celibacy culled.…”
Finally, Hamish managed to get things into focus. No longer needing to override Wriggles, the mysterious intruder-voice now wrote itself across the visual field of his left eye.
Please get up—again casually—and follow the guide dot.
Without any further reluctance or reservations (he was quite sick of the obnoxious “eugenics” speaker, anyway), Hamish stood and turned to leave by the rear exit, passing the security men, this time without a glance. At which point a yellow globe presented itself to one eye, pulsing in a nonthreatening sort of way, beckoning him down a hallway to his left.
Some people live all their lives awash in this stuff … virtual overlayers and “mixed reality.” They claim it empowers them to do more, experience more. But I’ve done fine without it. Show me anybody who lives immersed in the Billion Layer World, who’s accomplished more than I have!
At the same time, he wondered. How did the little contaict lens commune with controllers, elsewhere, without detection by mansion security?
Could the lens have enough ai to interact with me, all by itself?
He decided to test it. On passing a men’s room, Hamish veered through the doors. Any remote handlers might get stymied by all the plumbing in the walls, especially if they were using a weak and surreptitious radio beam.
Good idea, commented flowing letters. Better do a draining. You may be occupied a while.
Old-fashioned modesty was another reason to hate these eyeball-thingumbies. Hamish was careful not to look down while he peed, having no way to tell if others shared his view through the little lens. Instead, he studied the urinal’s spec-plate—another fine product of the Life-Liner, Ltd., promising to recover 93 percent of the phosphorus and 85 percent of the water in every flush. Hamish grimaced ruefully. In Phoscarcity? this very same eco-company had the role of chief villain, with a slight change of name. Part of a worldwide conspiracy by the Merde Monopoly to make money off a fake crisis. Some careless word choices and a court settlement took all his profits that time. Ah well.
Hamish lowered his gaze enough to aim his stream at the company logo, above the drain. After which, he zipped, washed, and exited. The yellow guidot seemed to be waiting in the same spot.
“ALLONS-Y, ALONZO,” he murmured, in case the lens could pick up throat subvocalisms, from all the way up in his eye socket. There was no answer. So he simply followed the guidot down another hall, up a broad set of stairs, then along another passage, through a vestibule and into one of the many museum libraries that dotted the Glaucus-Worthington manse, featuring book shelves that towered two stories, toward ceiling arches of hewn stone.
Wow. I could spend a week in here.
He half expected the lens to write captions across all the wonders in this room. Alas, it didn’t. Still, he recognized a glass-encased Gutenberg Bible and an illustrated Latin translation of Galen, the early Guitner edition. Other wonders were mysterious. Unlike any public museum, they bore no reality-level labels made of paper or plastic. Apparently, you were only supposed to view these treasures while accompanied by a bragging family member.
Well, well. He couldn’t tarry. The traveling beacon turned to head down one of the spaces between the tall shelves. Then, at the end of that narrow aisle, it bobbed slowly before one of those rolling ladders, leading to the upper level. As he approached, the glistening virtual globe bobbed upward, like an untethered balloon.
Hamish paused. The steps looked awkward for his big feet and gangly legs. But after a couple of seconds he shrugged and started up, clambering gamely, even a bit recklessly. If truth be told, he was enjoying himself immensely.
At the top, he turned and spent a few seconds waiting for the guidot to catch up, then stepped aside for it to pass and lead the way again—almost as if it were real, and not ersatz. An illusion created by a plastic disc sitting on his left eyeball. Alas, because he only wore a single contaict, the guidot was just two dimensional and a bit hard to pin down without pseudo-parallax. Still, Hamish followed it into a small alcove lined with dusty tomes, many of them surely more valuable than his house.
The globe transformed into the image of a floating, disembodied human hand—wearing a zardozian white glove—that turned with a magician’s flourish and pointed to some ornate carvings, surrounding a book case made of dark wood.
Pull this vine toward you, please. The unit should open.
Then step through very quietly, closing it behind you ALMOST all the way. Do not let it lock in place.
Although his heart was pounding, Hamish found it reassuring that the vaice was being so careful to leave him a way out. That made it seem less like a trap.
His hand stroked curving vines that climbed the bookcase, and Hamish wondered if anything like such delicate woodwork could be produced today. Of course, zealots of
the so-called Age of Amateurs claimed that every art, craft, and skill of the past could now be duplicated—not by machine, but by passionate hobbyists.
Hamish found that assertion painful, arrogant, even disgusting.
He pulled where the floating hand indicated. Without creaks or stiffness, a lever slid down around a hinge and—with a click—the entire case popped out a few centimeters. It swung fairly easily, even while supporting heavy volumes—evidently on smooth, modern bearings—whereupon Hamish found a dark passageway inside.
His right eye could make out nothing in the gloom. But in his left-hand field of view there appeared faint, glimmering outlines that told him where floor met walls, guiding his footsteps. Hamish pulled the case after him … almost shut, and turned to shuffle softly forward, thinking about stories by Poe.
There is a heavy wooden panel, set in the wall at eye level, just ahead.
Two meters. Now one.
Put out your arm to where mine points.
Hamish felt a faint nervous tremor in his fingertips as he reached. Even knowing what to expect, he experienced a faint frisson when his hand passed through the ghostly white glove without any physical contact. Million-year-old instincts were hard to overcome.
Grab the slider bolt.
Now push the panel gently to the left until a gap appears.
After a pause, there came an added caution.
You may watch, but make no sounds.
He shoved aside the wooden insert at the indicated spot, and brought his head down a bit, scrunching uncomfortably.
Eye level. Right. Maybe for normal people.
It was dim in the large chamber beyond, though he adapted quickly, even with his unassisted right eye. Soon made out another richly paneled room with a stonework dome, like the library behind him. In this one, however, there were no books, only statuary. Dozens of marble or bronze figures posed in alcoves lining the walls below, and above in a second story balcony colonnade. It was from that upper level that he now peered downward past one nearby piece of sculpture—some Hindu dancer or goddess, with a voluptuous figure, tiny waist, and only one pair of arms.
Gazing past her provocative navel, he spied a couple of dozen figures below, on the first level, gathered around a single tabletop source of illumination. Radiating like petals of a dark flower, their fleeing shadows crossed the floor then climbed the walls, interspersing warped, elongated human silhouettes among the onlooking statues. Low murmurs of conversation were too hushed for Hamish to make out clearly, though he swiftly recognized the hawklike features of Tenskwatawa and those of his host, Rupert Glaucus-Worthington, along with several other eminences from both factions, their faces pale and dim, but eyes glittering in the soft-sharp light.
I thought they were heading off to negotiate details of the alliance, Hamish mused. Vital matters of how power will be apportioned and which policies to pursue. Instead, this looks like some kind of ceremony.
Could I be watching secret initiation rites of the Illuminati?
Hamish felt a thrill. I was pretty much convinced that such things were just lurid rumors or romantic exaggerations, foisted by my fellow sci-fi writers. Could this mean the oligarchy really does have an inner, ritualized core? One the Prophet is now invited to join?
But not me?
Hamish quashed his sense of pique, focusing instead on curiosity, wondering—How could my sources have steered me so wrong?
Only … Hamish soon found himself revising that first impression. There seemed to be no pattern, no orderly arrangement of people crowded around the table below. No symbolic regalia. No rhythmic chanting. Just a murmur of worried wonder.
One of them, the owner of this vast palace, raised his voice a bit in answer to a question. A tone of querulous anxiety colored Rupert’s tone as he waved an arm in response, gesturing toward the table. And Hamish managed to pick out a few snippets.
“… in my family for three centuries…”
and then,
“… suddenly started, last night…”
and finally,
“… never did anything like this, before!”
Abruptly, Hamish realized, Glaucus-Worthington was talking about the object that lay before them at the center of the gathering. What Hamish had first taken for a simple—if somewhat dim—tabletop lamp, he now realized was something else entirely. A roundish lump of glass, about the size of a human head, and—he realized with a chill—rather shaped like one. It seemed to glow from within.
The contaict lens covering his left pupil kicked into operation, responding to his interest, performing some wizardry of magnification and image enhancement, zooming in toward the object. Image dissonance between his two eyes briefly sickened Hamish, till he shut the right one. Even looking only at the enhanced version, it took several moments to sort out the glitters and complex refractions before realizing.
It’s a crystal skull. One of those weird relics that people get all mystical about, in films even sillier than mine. Though most proved to be modern hoaxes.
Of course, “most” was not the same as “all.” Archaeologists did admit that a few seemed genuinely ancient, but still just works of art—natural chunks of quartz that had been laboriously chiseled and rubbed by artisans in olden times—showing no sign of mystical properties. Yet, some of the strange skullptures had never been put under public, high-tech scrutiny, allowing fervid tales to keep swirling.
I recall, one of them was kept in Switzerland, in private hands.
He never cared enough to learn more than that. Ancient occult artifacts were never a propelling topic for Hamish. Not as much as dangerous scientific innovations and Things Man Was Never Meant to Know. Nevertheless, there had always been something alluring about the works of authors and sceneasts like Joanne Sawyer and Ari Stone-Bear, who spun tales of mystery and wonder around arcane objects from the enigmatic past.
Someone—Tenskwatawa—reached out to touch the translucent cranium—pushing with a fingertip. Turning it till the rictus grin and sunken eye sockets almost faced Hamish, glowing with an expression of fey amusement …
… when a sudden shaft of brilliance gleamed, spearing him right through the contaict lens with a shrapnel-clutter of overlapping images—
—a planet of dark continents and narrows seas, conveyed in murky tans and grainy grays, except for a single, wavy band that flickered with detailed color, from azure seashore to snowcapped, purple peaks—
—a jumbled, jigsaw cityscape that stirred together a tangle of mud huts, skyscrapers, stilt houses, and gleaming domes, topped by thatched roofs—
—a crumpled mosaic of faces, jaggedly combining beaks and jaws and fluted stalks that, while twisted together unnaturally, seemed to snort and cry out with some kind of delirious urgency.
The impression lasted only a couple of seconds. Then it was gone. Benumbed with shock, Hamish sought refuge in logic. In scientific speculation.
That jumble of degraded images … mixed and overlapping chaotically … they could be remnants of holographic memory. Unlike the Havana Artifact, this one offers just a few surviving fragments, retained after the thing was damaged.
Perhaps by the primitive artists who used powders and stones to grind and polish it into a shape worthy of veneration, never knowing how much harm they were doing … or else even earlier, when the crystal came crashing to Earth.
Broken and ruined, unable to communicate clearly, perhaps it could only offer brief snatches of ambiguous confusion and dreamlike images. Enough to terrify our primitive ancestors with thoughts of death. Maybe inspiring other tribes to make their own crystal skulls, in vain efforts to duplicate its power. No wonder oligarchs like Rupert thought this too disturbing to share with the easily alarmed masses.
Hamish turned his attention to Glaucus-Worthington. To the unhappy look on the man’s face.
But didn’t Rupert just say something? That this showy display started only last night? Perhaps the skull never wakened—but for rare flickers—till a few hours
ago.
Only … why now?
Hamish had no trouble coming up with a most likely hypothesis.
Oh my.
TORALYZER
This is Tor—“Zep-girl”—Povlov, reporting to you from my new beat. Web-Eighteen, level Z12. The hippest, heppest hot-hit-hat … or not-this-that … in the Mesh. And, yes, I come before you as a purely-pearly virtue-virtual, wearing the nimbus halo of a holy-hollow holo. Hello? You expected, like, veri-real shots of the Heroine of Washing-tin? My current-realtime phys-visage?
Granny would say, as if! That cadaver-shell is just container-support. I live here now, in the Over-World. Pat this avatar on the back, I feel it. If I ever let one of you horny fans talk me into a back room privirtcy (or pervertcy), the sustainer pod’ll convey it. Nothing wrong with the old Tor’s hormonal system!
(Sure … like THAT’s going to happen! Still, you can keep offering.)
So yes, there’s still plenty of “me” left. And one thing I promise—I’ll never let my presence here run on aitopilot.
Tell you what. Help boost my ratings, and MediaCorp may spring for a more palp-able holvatar. Even one of those android-mobiles, I can send to chase down real-layer stories. Meanwhile, though, there’s plenty to occupy us here, in the Val-hall-levels, where citizen/amateur heroes like you can hunt iniquities, skewering lies with lances of transparency and light! Like we did, together, back on the old Spirit of Chula Vista.
So let’s get started.
* * *
What? Many of you want to hear about me, first? What it’s like to live this way?
Each year, hundreds of catastrophically injured people become gel-encased refugees, like me, who experience life through remote sensors, rather than organic eyes and flesh. Though the Mesh is home, we’re not “uploaded” cybernetic beings. Cams and sensors still feed old-fashioned nerve channels of a very wetbrain.
For some it’s a painful, limited life, that only fools would envy. Still, tens of thousands of normal, undamaged homosaps climb into hook-in tanks and risk body-atrophy, trying to follow us “pioneers” down the path of the living holvatar.