by Jack Dann
But children suck up a lot of resources, which like I said were scarce. So the early settlers had to make do with virtual children.
It was probably hard in the beginning. If you were a parent you had to put on a headset and gloves and a body suit in order to cuddle your infant, whose objective existence consisted of about a skazillion lines of computer code anyway . . . well, let’s just say you had to want that kid really badly.
Especially since you couldn’t touch him in the flesh till he was grown up, when he would be downloaded into a body grown in a vat just for him. The theory being that there was no point in having anyone on your settlement who couldn’t contribute to the economy and help pay for those scarce resources, so you’d only incarnate your offspring when he was already grown up and could get a job and help to pay for all that oxygen.
You might figure from this that it was a hard life, out there on the frontier.
Now it’s a lot easier. People can move in and out of virtual worlds with nothing more than a click of a mental switch. You get detailed sensory input through various nanoscale computers implanted in your brain, so you don’t have to put on oven mitts to feel your kid. You can dandle your offspring, and play with him, and teach him to talk, and feed him even. Life in the virtual realms claims to be 100 percent realistic, though in my opinion it’s more like 95 percent, and only in the realms that intend to mimic reality, since some of them don’t.
Certain elements of reality were left out, and there are advantages—at least if you’re a parent. No drool, no messy diapers, no vomit. When the child trips and falls down, he’ll feel pain—you do want to teach -him not to fall down, or to bang his head on things—but on the other hand there won’t be any concussions or broken bones. There won’t be any fatal accidents involving fuel spills or vacuum.
There are other accidents that the parents have made certain we won’t have to deal with. Accidental pregnancy, accidental drunkenness, accidental drug use.
Accidental gambling. Accidental vandalism. Accidental suicide. Accidentally acquiring someone else’s property. Accidentally stealing someone’s extra-vehicular unit and going for a joy ride among the asteroids.
Accidentally having fun. Because believe me, the way the adults arrange it here, all the fun is planned ahead of time.
Yep, Dr. Sam, life is pretty good if you’re a grown-up. Your kids are healthy and smart and extremely well educated. They live in a safe, organized world filled with exciting educational opportunities, healthy team sports, family entertainment, and games that reward group effort, cooperation, and good citizenship.
It all makes me want to puke. If I could puke, that is, because I can’t. (Did I mention there was no accidental bulimia, either?)
Thy body is all vice, Miss Alison, and thy mind all virtue.
Exactly, Dr. Sam. And it’s the vice I’m hoping to find out about. Once I get a body, that is.
We knew that we weren’t going to enjoy much vice on Fahd’s Incarnation Day, but still everyone in the Cadre of Glorious Destiny was excited, and maybe a little jealous, about his finally getting to be an adult, and incarnating into the real world and having some real world fun for a change. Never mind that he’d got stuck in a dismal job as an electrical engineer on a frozen moon.
All jobs are pretty dismal from what I can tell, so he isn’t any worse off than anyone else really.
For days before the party I had been sort of avoiding Fritz. Since we’re electronic we can avoid each other easily, simply by not letting yourself be visible, to the other person, and not answering any queries he sends to you, but I didn’t want to be rude.
Fritz was cadre, after all.
So I tried to make sure I was too busy to deal with Fritz—too busy at school, or with my job for Dane, or working with one of the other cadre members on a project. But a few hours before our departure for Titan, when I was in a conference room with Bartolomeo and Parminder working on an assignment for our Artificial Intelligence class, Fritz knocked on our door, and Bartolomeo granted him access before Parminder and I could signal him not to.
So in comes Fritz. Since we’re electronic we can appear to one another as whatever we like, for instance Mary Queen of Scots or a bunch of snowflakes or even you, Dr. Sam. We all experiment with what we look like. Right now I mostly use an avatar of a sort-of Picasso woman—he used to distort people in his paintings so that you had a kind of 360-degree view of them, or parts of them, and I think that’s kind of interesting, because my whole aspect changes depending on what angle of me you’re viewing.
For an avatar Fritz’s used the image of a second-rate action star named Norman Isfahan. Who looks okay, at least if you can forget his lame videos, except that Fritz added an individual touch in the form of a balloon-shaped red hat. Which he thought made him look cool, but which only seemed ludicrous and a little sad.
Fritz stared at me for a moment, with a big goofy grin on his face, and Parminder sent me a little private electronic note of sympathy. In the last few months Fritz had become my pet, and he followed me around whenever he got the chance. Sometimes he’d be with me for hours without saying a word, sometimes he’d talk the entire time and not let me get a single word in.
I did my best with him, but I had a life to lead, too. And friends. And family. And I didn’t want this person with me every minute, because even though I was sorry for him he was also very frustrating to be around.
Friendship is not always the sequel of obligation.
Alas, Dr. J., too true.
Fritz was the one member of our cadre who came out, well, wrong. They build us—us software—by reasoning backwards from reality, from our parents’ DNA. They find a good mix of our parents’ genes, and that implies certain things about us, and the sociologists get their say about what sort of person might be needful in the next generation, and everything’s thrown together by a really smart artificial intelligence, and in the end you get a virtual child.
But sometimes despite all the intelligence of everyone and everything involved, mistakes are made. Fritz was one of these. He wasn’t stupid exactly—he was as smart as anyone—but his mental reflexes just weren’t in the right plane. When he was very young he would spend hours without talking or interacting with any of us. Fritz’s parents, Jack and Hans, were both software engineers, and they were convinced the problem was fixable. So they complained and they or the AIs or somebody came up with a software patch, one that was supposed to fix his problem—and suddenly Fritz was active and angry, and he’d get into fights with people and sometimes he’d just scream for no reason at all and go on screaming for hours.
So Hans and Jack went to work with the code again, and there was a new software patch, and now Fritz was stealing things, except you can’t really steal anything in sims, because the owner can find any virtual object just by sending it a little electronic ping.
That ended with Fritz getting fixed yet again, and this went on for years. So while it was true that none of us were exactly a person, Fritz was less a person than any of us.
We all did our best to help. We were cadre, after all, and cadres look after their own. But there was a limit to what any of us could do. We heard about unanticipated feedback loops and subsystem crashes and weird quantum transfers leading to fugue states. I think that the experts had no real idea what was going on. Neither did we.
There was a lot of question as to what would happen when Fritz incarnated. If his problems were all software glitches, would they disappear once he was meat and no longer software? Or would they short-circuit his brain?
A check on the histories of those with similar problems did not produce encouraging answers to these questions.
And then Fritz became my problem because he got really attached to me, and he followed me around.
“Hi, Alison,” he said.
“Hi, Fritz.”
I tried to look very busy with what I was doing, which is difficult to do if you’re being Picasso Woman and rather abstract-looking to begin w
ith.
“We’re going to Titan in a little while,” Fritz said.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Would you like to play the shadowing game with me?” he asked.
Right then I was glad I was Picasso Woman and not incarnated, because I knew that if I had a real body I’d be blushing.
“Sure,” I said. “If our capsules are anywhere near each other when we hit the atmosphere. We might be separated, though.”
“I’ve been practicing in the simulations,” Fritz said. “And I’m getting pretty good at the shadowing game.”
“Fritz,” Parminder said. “We’re working on our Al project now, okay? Can we talk to you later, on Titan?”
“Sure.”
And I sent a note of gratitude to Parminder, who was in on the scheme with me and Janis, and who knew that Fritz couldn’t be a part of it.
Shortly thereafter my electronic being was transmitted from Ceres by high-powered communications lasers and downloaded into an actual body, even if it was a body that had six legs and that didn’t belong to me. The body was already in its vacuum suit, which was packed into the descent capsule—I mean nobody wanted us floating around in the Cassini Ranger in zero gravity in bodies we weren’t used to—so there wasn’t a lot I could do for entertainment.
Which was fine. It was the first time I’d been in a body, and I was absorbed in trying to work out all the little differences between reality and the sims I’d grown up in.
In reality, I thought, things seem a little quieter. In simulations there are always things competing for your attention, but right now there was nothing to do but listen to myself breathe.
And then there was a bang and a big shove, easily absorbed by foam padding, and I was launched into space, aimed at the orange ball that was Titan, and behind it the giant pale sphere of Saturn.
The view was sort of disappointing. Normally you see Saturn as an image with the colors electronically altered so as to heighten the subtle differences in detail. The reality of Saturn was more of a pasty blob, with faint brown stripes and a little red jagged scrawl of a storm in the southern hemisphere.
Unfortunately I couldn’t get a very good view of the rings, because they were edge-on, like a straight silver knife-slash right across a painted canvas.
Besides Titan I could see at least a couple dozen moons. I could recognize Dione and Rhea, and Enceladus because it was so bright. Iapetus was obvious because it was half light and half dark. There were a lot of tiny lights that could have been Atlas or Pan or Prometheus or Pandora or maybe a score of others.
I didn’t have enough time to puzzle out the identity of the other moons, because Titan kept getting bigger and bigger. It was a dull orange color, except on the very edge where the haze scatters blue light. Other than that arc of blue, Titan is orange the same way Mars is red, which is to say that it’s orange all the way down, and when you get to the bottom there’s still more orange.
It seemed like a pretty boring place for Fahd to spend his first years of adulthood.
I realized that if I were doing this trip in a sim, I’d fast-forward through this part. It would be just my luck if all reality turned out to be this dull.
Things livened up in a hurry when the capsule hit the atmosphere. There was a lot of noise, and the capsule rattled and jounced, and bright flames of ionizing radiation shot up past the view port. I could feel my heart speeding up, and my breath going fast. It was my body that was being bounced around, with my nerve impulses running along my spine. This was much more interesting. This was the difference between reality and a sim, even though I couldn’t explain exactly what the difference was.
It is the distinction, Miss Alison, between the undomesticated awe which one might feel at the sight of a noble wild prospect discovered in nature; and that which is produced by a vain tragedian on the stage, puffing and blowing in a transport of dismal fury as he tries to describe the same vision.
Thank you, Dr. Sam.
We that live to please must please to live.
I could see nothing but fire for a while, and then there was a jolt and a Crash Bang as the braking chute deployed, and I was left swaying frantically in the sudden silence, my heart beating fast as high-atmosphere winds fought for possession of the capsule. Far above I could just see the ionized streaks of some of the other cadre members heading my way.
It was then, after all I could see was the orange fog, that I remembered that I’d been so overwhelmed by the awe of what I’d been seeing that I forgot to observe. So I began to kick myself over that.
It isn’t enough to stare when you want to be a visual artist, which is what I want more than anything. A noble wild prospect (as you’d call it, Dr. Sam) isn’t simply a gorgeous scene, it’s also a series of technical problems. Ratios, colors, textures. Media. Ideas. Frames. Decisions. I hadn’t thought about any of that when I had the chance, and now it was too late.
I decided to start paying better attention, but there was nothing happening outside but acetylene sleet cooking off the hot exterior of the capsule. I checked my tracking display and my onboard map of Titan’s surface. So I was prepared when a private message came from Janis. .
“Alison. You ready to roll?”
“Sure. You bet.” '
“This is going to be brilliant.”
I hoped so. But somewhere in my mind I kept hearing Dr. Sam’s voice:
Remember that all tricks are either knavish or childish.
The trick I played on Fritz was both.
I had been doing some outside work for Dane, who was a communications tech, because outside work paid in real money, not the Citizenship Points we get paid in the sims. And Dane let me do some of the work on Fahd’s Incarnation Day, so I was able to arrange which capsules everyone was going to be put into.
I put Fritz into the last capsule to be fired at Titan. And those of us involved in Janis’ scheme—Janis, Parminder, Andy, and I— were fired first.
This basically meant that we were going to be on Titan five or six minutes ahead of Fritz, which meant it was unlikely that he’d be able to catch up to us. He would be someone else’s problem for a while.
I promised myself that I’d be extra nice to him later, but it didn’t stop me from feeling knavish and childish.
After we crashed into Titan’s atmosphere, and after a certain amount of spinning and swaying we came to a break in the cloud, and I could finally look down at Titan’s broken surface. Stark mountains, drifts of methane snow, shiny orange ethane lakes, the occasional crater. In the far distance, in the valley between a pair of lumpy mountains, was the smooth toboggan slide of the Tomasko glacier. And over to one side, on a plateau, were the blinking lights that marked our landing area.
And directly below was an ethane cloud, into which the capsule soon vanished. It was there that the chute let go, and there was a stomach-lurching drop before the airfoils deployed. I was not used to having my stomach lurch—recall if you will my earlier remarks on puking—so it was a few seconds before I was able to recover and take control of what was now a large and agile glider.
No, I hadn’t piloted a glider before. But I’d spent the last several weeks working with simulations, and the technology was fail-safed anyway. Both I and the onboard computer would have to screw up royally before I could damage myself or anyone else. I took command of the pod and headed for Janis’ secret rendezvous.
There are various sorts of games you can play with the pods as they’re dropping through the atmosphere. You can stack your airfoils in appealing and intricate formations. (I think this one’s really stupid if you’re trying to do it in the middle of thick clouds.) There’s the game called “shadowing,” the one that Fritz wanted to play with me, where you try to get right on top of another pod, above the airfoils where they can’t see you, and you have to match every maneuver of the pod that’s below you, which is both trying to evade you and to maneuver so as to get above you. There are races, where you try to reach some theoretical point in th
e sky ahead of the other person. And there’s just swooping and dashing around the sky, which is probably as fun as anything.
But Janis had other plans. And Parminder and Andy and I, who were Janis’ usual companions in her adventures, had elected to be a part of her scheme, as was our wont. (Do you like my use of the word “wont,” Dr. Sam?) And a couple other members of the cadre, Mei and Bartolomeo, joined our group without knowing our secret purpose.
We disguised our plan as a game of shadowing, which I turned out to be very good at. It’s not simply a game of flying, it’s a game of spacial relationships, and that’s what visual artists have to be good at understanding. I spent more time on top of one or more of the players than anyone else.
Though perhaps the others weren’t concentrating on the game. Because although we were performing the intricate spiraling maneuvers of shadowing as a part of our cover, we were also paying very close attention to the way the winds were blowing at different altitudes—we had cloud-penetrating lasers for that, in addition to constant meteorological data from the ground—and we were using available winds as well as our maneuvers to slowly edge away from our assigned landing field, and toward our destined target.
I kept expecting to hear from Fritz, wanting to join our game. But I didn’t. I supposed he had found his fun somewhere else.
All the while we were stunting around Janis was sending us course and altitude corrections, and thanks to her navigation we caught the edge of a low pressure area that boosted us toward our objective at nearly two hundred kilometers per hour. It was then that Mei swung her capsule around and began a descent toward the landing field.
“I just got the warning that we’re on the edge of our flight zone,” she reported.
“Roger,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Janis. “We know.”