Virtually Undead

by Robert I. Katz

  Ralph barely had time to snatch his weapons from their sheaths before they were on top of him. He flailed. He felt his neck twisting to the side as cold hands grasped his helmet and a cold sensation swept over him as his armor was ripped away. Two vampires thrust their arms through Ralph’s chest. He felt his sternum crack open and then one vampire wrapped a spidery hand around his heart and ripped it out.

  Pretty tough for Level 1, Ralph thought. They’ll have to work on that…

  “I don’t know what happened.” Jim Jameson bit his lip. Ralph Guthrie’s body still lay where it had fallen, near the edge of the room, the remains of the exosuit scattered about. Jameson’s hands were shaking. Ellen Scott quietly twisted a handkerchief back and forth, seemingly unaware that she was doing so.

  Harold Strong had a bad feeling about this, aside from the usual bad feelings associated with a premature, seemingly senseless death. Weird things had been happening, and this was only the latest. The glitch that had dumped raw sewage into the Hudson River had recurred two more times. The traffic light in lower Manhattan that had turned green too soon, kept on doing it. The system had been repeatedly re-programmed. Nothing seemed to stop it. Finally, traffic control had disabled the light and stationed a policeman there to direct traffic, hardly an ideal solution.

  There was more. A natural gas line leading to an apartment complex in Queens had inexplicably ruptured, creating an exploding fireball in the center of a children’s playground. Luckily, it had happened at night and nobody was injured.

  A power surge had caused a blackout in the Bronx. Five thousand people had been left without power for nearly six hours. Again, nobody had been injured and the power was soon restored. A faulty series of capacitors, supposedly. A day later, a similar incident had occurred on Staten Island.

  The mayor was pissed off. When the mayor got pissed off, the Police Commissioner got pissed off. By now, everybody in the Department was pissed off, also gun shy. There seemed neither rhyme nor reason for what would otherwise be considered an assortment of isolated events, but there were too many of them, and the fact that they somehow kept recurring indicated that something larger and more ominous was at work.

  Gremlins, maybe. Or poltergeists.

  Alyssa Weissman had recovered from her injury and gone home. She had been able to shed no light at all on the accident that had killed her boyfriend and rendered her unconscious and bleeding into her skull, not that Harold had expected any.

  And now this…

  A dead body, apparently dead from a heart attack, seemed a far cry from terrorism. Except that Ralph Guthrie was not the only victim. There were nine more dead bodies, one in each of nine cities spread across the country.

  “Cause of death?” Harold asked.

  The ME looked grim. “Hard to say, exactly, but judging from the small burn over the left side of his chest and the similar burn on his back, I would say that he most likely died from a cardiac arrhythmia, caused by an electrical discharge. This is still speculation, of course. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  Ralph Guthrie had been pried out of the exosuit as soon as he collapsed. The officers and employees of Remington Simulations had performed CPR and dialed 911. They had even used an automated external defibrillator. An ambulance crew arrived within ten minutes and took over the resuscitative efforts, to no avail. Ralph Guthrie was dead.

  The responding officers, arriving only a few minutes after the ambulance crew, observed the scene, cordoned it off and began the process of interviewing witnesses, of which there were nearly a hundred. They also called Harold Strong, Lieutenant in the Counterterrorism Unit of the NYPD.

  So here he stood, like so many of his colleagues, pissed off. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

  Jim Jameson looked at him, lips trembling, his face white. “My office.”

  Jameson led the way, Harold following. Ellen Scott hesitated, then bit her lip and followed after them. Jameson had a large, corner office, with floor to ceiling windows looking down on the street and across to another row of high-rise buildings. Two couches and an easy chair clustered around a low, glass coffee table. Harold took the chair. “Sit down,” he said. Jameson and Ellen Scott sat close together on one of the couches, seeming to draw comfort from each other’s presence.

  “I assume you have video,” Harold said.

  Jameson glanced at Ellen Scott, who sat staring down at her hands, looking miserable. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. The whole thing was being filmed.”

  “Before I review it, please tell me what happened, so far as you know.”

  Jameson’s face screwed up. A tear dripped down Ellen Scott’s cheek. Absently, she wiped it off with the handkerchief she still clutched in her fist.

  “He was playing the game,” Jameson said. “He was doing really well.”

  Harold nodded. “Tell me about the game.”

  “Virtually Undead. It’s a prototype, a pretty standard sort of action oriented role-playing game. The player wears powered armor, which gives him increased strength, speed and some protection against attack. He has a series of weapons, each of them effective against a certain type of attacker. The aim is to get to the Seventeenth Floor of the building and retrieve a notebook computer that contains information necessary for the survival of mankind. The obstacles include a bunch of mythical creatures: vampires, zombies, ghouls, demons…you name it.”

  “Okay…” Harold said. “This is routine?”

  “For VR games? Absolutely.” Jameson barely shrugged. “Mostly, this particular game was designed to demonstrate the potential of the hardware. We’ve tried to make the virtual reality simulation as realistic as possible. Once you’ve got that suit on, it’s not hard to believe in the scenario. It looks real, it sounds real, and most important of all, it feels real.”

  “I imagine,” Harold said, “that it’s not supposed to feel real enough to kill you.”

  Jameson swallowed. “No,” he said.

  “No,” Harold repeated.

  Harold Strong was not into video games. He preferred more refined amusements, like drinking Scotch and chasing women, though now that he thought of it, he had read somewhere that the ultimate goal of the pornography industry was a totally immersive, virtually real experience with the imaginary porn star (or girl next door) of your choice.

  “So, how did he die?” Harold asked.

  Neither Jim Jameson nor Ellen Scott chose to answer. Harold sighed. “Let me amend the question: let us assume that our hero is overwhelmed by a horde of rampaging zombies. The zombies rip his head off. What happens then to our intrepid hero?”

  “What is supposed to happen,” Jameson said, “is that a bell rings, the scenario ends and the points are totaled up.”

  “But what is supposed to happen at that moment when the game player’s head is ripped from his body? To the player, I mean?”

  Ellen Scott looked up. “He’s supposed to get a small buzzing sensation around his neck. A message on the visual field inside the helmet informs him that he’s dead.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That is most definitely it.”

  “Small…” Harold raised an eyebrow.

  “Very small,” Ellen Scott said.

  “So, the suit can cause pain?”

  “Not really pain. Minor discomfort.”

  Pain, Harold knew, was subjective. There was no absolute way to measure pain. You could dial in an exact amount of electricity, make a pre-determined slice with a knife or shoot a bullet of a standard caliber into a victim’s head. Damage can be quantified. The amount of pain caused by that damage depends entirely upon the individual’s perception.

  “Ten people are dead. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ellen Scott said faintly.

  “According to the Medical Examiner, the most likely cause of death is an electric shock to the chest that caused the victim’s heart to fibrillate. Can the suit do that?”

  “The discomfort com
es from a vibrating disk, not electric shocks,” Jameson said. “It shouldn’t be able to cause any damage.”

  “And yet, ten people are dead. We won’t know for certain what killed Mr. Guthrie until the autopsy is completed. The other nine are in nine different cities across the country. I will be coordinating with the police in all those cities, and also, since these events happened in ten different states, with the FBI. By tomorrow, we will presumably know the cause of death in all ten cases.”

  “We’re ruined,” Jameson said, his tone despairing.

  Harold Strong puffed up his cheeks and looked at him. “Probably,” he said. “And also, don’t leave town.”

  Chapter 6

  “Someone to see you, Doctor.”

  Michael looked up. His secretary, Mrs. Bullock, stood in the door to his office. “A policeman,” Mrs. Bullock said, her round, black face screwed up in concern.

  Michael glanced at the clock. It was 3:30 PM. A patient had canceled earlier in the day and for a wonder, he had actually finished early. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just to see you.”

  Michael glanced again at the clock, inwardly shrugged. “Please show him in.”

  Mrs. Bullock bobbed her head and a few seconds later, she ushered Harold Strong into the office. Harold looked around, curious, then sat in one of the two visitors’ chairs in front of Michael’s desk.

  “Lieutenant Strong, how can I help you?”

  “You can tell me everything you can about Ralph Guthrie.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. “Ralph? Is Ralph in some sort of trouble?”

  Harold Strong sighed and seemed to slump down in his chair. “You haven’t heard?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that Ralph Guthrie passed away this morning.”

  Michael stared. “How?” he finally asked.

  “Well, that is the question.” Harold Strong gave Michael a searching look, then seemed to shrug. “He was trying out a new game system, at the headquarters of a corporation, Remington Simulations, in Manhattan.”

  “I knew that,” Michael said. “He told me about it.”

  “Did he?” Harold Strong seemed to momentarily perk up. “And what, exactly, did he tell you?”

  “That they have a new game system, supposedly a very advanced game system.”

  “What else?”

  “The goal of such systems, so far as I understand it, is to simulate reality so closely as to be almost indistinguishable. This system, or so Ralph told me, does a pretty good job.” Michael hesitated. “You still haven’t told me how he died.”

  “No.” Harold Strong leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Their game system is designed to resemble a sort of futuristic body armor. He was wearing it. The system includes a helmet, which transmits sight and sound, and also does a so-so job with the sense of smell, plus a vest, leggings and gauntlets, all of which contain small devices that mimic the sense of touch.”

  “Virtual reality. I know this. It’s the next big thing.”

  “Bottom line? Mr. Guthrie suffered what appears to be a cardiac arrhythmia, presumably caused by a malfunction in the bodysuit.”

  Michael gave him a doubtful look. “Aside from intrinsic heart disease, there are only two things that can cause a fatal arrythmia: the wrong medication—poison, basically—or electricity. I suppose it’s possible that the suit contained some sort of poison, but that seems pretty far-fetched.”

  “If it’s there, we’ll find it, but according to the ME, it was most likely electricity.”

  Michael had treated many victims of multiple trauma. He had interacted with their family and friends. He understood the maelstrom of emotions they went through, the sense of unreality, of time stopping around a single, barely comprehensible reality, so he understood his own feelings. That didn’t make it easier to deal with, however.

  “Ralph,” he whispered. “We were friends for a long time.”

  “So, I understand.” Harold Strong shifted in his seat and grimaced. “Again, I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Why are you here, anyway?”

  “Mr. Guthrie’s family has given us a list of his friends, all the ones they knew of, at any rate. We will be interviewing all of Mr. Guthrie’s friends, family and close contacts.”

  Michael blinked. “Why? It was an accident.” He hesitated. “Wasn’t it?”

  Harold Strong sighed again. “Probably not.”

  After Harold Strong left, Michael sat in his office, dazed. The conversation had been frustrating and inconclusive. As was presumably the routine in such cases, Harold Strong had asked Michael if Ralph Guthrie had any enemies. The idea was laughable. Ralph had been a harmless, chubby little guy who loved music and video games. Period.

  Harold Strong had presented Michael with a list of names, friends and acquaintances of the victim. Michael knew fewer than half of these and had little to say about any of them. Michael had given the detective a few additional names, members of the band, mostly.

  “How about these?” Harold Strong handed Michael a second list of nine names. “Recognize any of them?”

  Michael quickly scanned it. “No. Not at all.”

  “Ten people have died in this incident, all in the exact same way. One in each of ten cities across the nation. These are the others.”

  Michael stared at him.

  “Ordinarily,” Harold Strong said, “on any investigation, we try to keep as much information as possible to ourselves, but there’s no way to keep this a secret. By tonight, it will be all over the news.”

  “So much for Remington Simulations,” Michael said.

  “Yeah. They’re toast.”

  Ralph Guthrie had mentioned Michael Morse to Michael Foreman on more than one occasion. He was one of Ralph’s idols, a high school dropout who had become a leading expert on VR simulation.

  The summer before, Michael Foreman had attended a neurosurgical conference in San Diego. Acting on impulse, he had given Michael Morse a call and invited him. Morse had stood out in the crowd, most of whom were older and better dressed.

  Michael Foreman had given a talk on the interpretation of functional MRI in association with electroencephalography to map brain activity. Afterward, the two of them, along with a few of Michael Foreman’s neurosurgical colleagues, had retreated to the hotel bar. The other surgeons had soon left, finding the conversation too esoteric for their tastes. Michael Morse and Michael Foreman had talked for nearly two hours. Both found the other’s ideas and field of interest to be fascinating.

  “Ralph speaks highly of you,” Michael Foreman said, at one point. “He said that you sold your system for a lot of money.”

  Michael Morse shrugged and sipped his Scotch. “This is true. They kept me on as a consultant but I’m not going to renew the contract. They don’t really need me and they’re a bunch of stuffed shirts.” He grinned wanly. “Don’t get me started.”

  “And you no longer need the money.”

  Michael Morse’s lips twitched. “This is also true. I’m not even thirty and I can afford to do whatever the hell I want. It’s a nice feeling.” He sighed contentedly, then his eyes snapped to Michael Foreman’s face. “My work, up until now, has centered around the creation of a visual simulation that seems real enough to fool the mind. There are other companies doing the same thing. My system does it cheaper. It’s smaller and weighs less. It’s entirely different from what you’re trying to do.”

  By now, Michael Foreman was having a small bit of difficulty in keeping his thoughts straight. “Mostly, I’m trying to develop systems to diagnose and compensate for brain damage.”

  “That is a laudable but intermediate goal,” Michael Morse said.

  Michael Foreman peered at him owlishly. “How so?”

  “You’re mapping brain activity as a first step toward interpreting it. What you’re looking for is an interface, a device that can, taken to its logical end, read minds—to determine what the brain is th
inking. Once you can do that, the next step is to develop devices that will extend those thoughts into the material world: artificial limbs, for instance, or robotic systems that can operate at a distance, as extensions of the mind.”

  Well, yes…Michael scratched his head. “How is this intermediate?”

  “Your focus is on patients with brain damage, but why stop at patients with brain damage? Think how useful such a system would be for everyone else. What you’re trying to do is only a step toward creating a total artificial environment, one that can seamlessly interface with the real environment, until the two merge together into one, entirely immersive whole.”

  By then, they had both been at least borderline drunk. The conversation had been memorable, though through the alcoholic haze, Michael actually remembered very little of it. Mostly, he remembered the excitement of bouncing ideas off somebody who thought much like himself, who understood what he was talking about and had enough imagination to follow an idea to its logical, fantastical conclusion.

  The rest of the conference had been interesting but lacked the same intellectual zing, except for two lectures on brain computer interface by two well-known researchers in the field. The first guy’s name was David Sternberg, an Associate Professor from Stanford. Sternberg waved his arms excitedly and seemed truly delighted to be there. Sternberg presented a video of a dog, which had suffered paraplegia from a fall, walking with the aid of a motorized set of legs controlled by a helmet attached to a drode implanted beneath the dog’s skull. It was impressive, but the large amount of hardware required to properly interpret the interface made it impractical for current use. Still, it was a beginning. Give it five more years and it might be ready to be used in patients.

  The second guy was older. He rarely smiled and gave his presentation in a languid, offhand manner. His name was James Garrett, a neurosurgeon with a PhD in bioengineering, currently at Selwyn, in New Orleans. He had come up with a computerized algorithm to read an EEG and convert the results into visual images. Again, impressive, but while the computerized images did bear a resemblance to the actual objects the subject had viewed—a snowy mountain, a forest in the background and a lake surrounded by flowering shrubs—they differed in important details.