by J. J. Lorden
The Texier Athelon immersion pods were the finest in the world.
Shaped like an aerodynamic sarcophagus, widest at the shoulder and tapering toward the feet and head, there was not a single hard edge or corner on them. Even the underside curved in a mirror image of the lid; each pod actually resting on six retractable feet with a gap between pod and floor.
On each one, a soft glow emanated from a rectangular viewport above the black Texier logo. Illuminated by clean light from the entire ceiling, they appeared more like sculptures in steel than technology.
Larger than every other immersion pod, the Athelon was 9 feet long and four feet around at the shoulder.
That size was not just for show, either. Each Athelon had a full suite of redundant onboard systems; life support, waste recycling, network link, and backup power capable of operating in standalone mode for 70 days for the average adult and more than twice that for a child.
Austin had never tested this of course, why would he? However, knowing his father, he suspected they were actually capable of going much longer.
The pod room itself was several times larger than the attached lab and could accommodate 30 total in a complete ring. To date, Austin and his team had only ever needed three. The other nine were new–never used.
In addition to the power supply cables, a second, smaller set of life support lines connected below the lid on the hinge side. In it was a pair of transparent tubes and two thin black mesh lines–the oxygen and nanite lines.
These drooped a bit before turning upward. A couple feet below the ceiling, they were bundled with lines from two other pods, and the whole group disappeared through a collar in the smooth ceiling.
Set up here, with access to power and nutrients, the Athelon capsule was theoretically capable of sustaining a human being indefinitely.
This was unique to the Athelon. Competitive pod manufactures didn’t bother to develop comparable tech because of software limitations in the few existing immersive Virtual Reality games.
All VR worlds currently on the market had an issue with the human brain falling asleep–namely, they couldn’t handle it. That made the maximum viable play session about 18 hours before exhaustion threatened the body with forced sleep. Accordingly, other pods had programed play session limits.
Because of these limits, pods were seen as a luxury, and most players used VR helmets with some form of haptic feedback vest or suit.
A pod did offer an enhanced gaming experience, simulating a full body experience from the tips of the toes to the top of the head. Unfortunately, just owning a pod didn’t automatically allow players to log on and experience this in any VR world they wanted.
Each of the existing programs had a proprietary method of interfacing with the player’s brain. Unless you bought a pod from the company that made the game, the interface wasn’t included. Consequently, most people had one of these program specific units. They were also more affordable, which played into it, but buying one meant a player was locked into the one game.
Those with the means, bought an Athelon or one of its lesser competitors and separately bought the needed VR engine from the software companies. These were small cubes, about the size of a six-sided die, that installed in the capsule.
However, other than the Athelon, none of the other pods came standard with systems to handle sustenance and the call of nature.
Not wanting to go 18 hours without these basic necessities, many die-hard pod users bought additional add-on systems to handle basic blood glucose levels, hydration, and liquid excretion.
None of these systems were terribly convenient, though. They all involved needles, and nobody wanted to stick themselves with needles, even with a self-guided injector.
And the liquid collection systems were… awkward.
Basically, it was a choice between a fancy catheter or a catch device. The first was a mild form of torture. The second bore a distinct resemblance to certain physical enhancement pumps used to increase blood flow in the genitals. Kinky maybe, socially acceptable, not so much.
Those personal choices aside, play session times were still limited by the sleep transition. Until immersive VR programs could handle the change, or at least announced they had a solution, manufactures weren’t investing in the complexity of building long-term immersion pods.
The Athelon’s capacity to sustain life wasn’t just forward thinking. Before Bendik had left on his hiatus, working together, he and Austin had finally cracked the sleep transition problem.
In their work, Austin had been shocked to find his contribution to the solution meaningful and nearly on par with his father’s. A seed of undeniable confidence in himself had been born and flourished during that time. That deep self-trust had been critical in his training with Elle.
Sleep transition, while in VR, had to account for the brain’s delta-wave transition. This occurs as people fall asleep, and the brain’s regular alpha, beta, and theta waves shift into longer delta-wave patterns. The slower delta waves require less energy, allowing the mind to rest.
The delta-wave transition destabilized the neural connection other VR software used to maintain the virtual world. This sync failure dropped the brain out of the simulation, basically leaving the mind in limbo–just as it was falling asleep.
The mind experienced this connection loss as reality suddenly evaporating. Quite correctly, this was interpreted as a serious threat.
The stress of reality dissolving activated a fight-or-flight response in the amygdala, a tiny, ancient part of the brain responsible for keeping humans alive in the face of danger. When aroused, the amygdala goosed the adrenal glands, which then dumped adrenaline into the circulatory system.
Anyone who has been suddenly scared senseless–their whole-body tensing, emotions flaring, and body flinching from the perceived threat as the heart starts to race–has experienced this adrenaline dump.
For a gamer in a pod, that experience is magnified several times. One, because the sleeping mind really doesn’t handle adrenaline well, and two, because the gamer awakes absolutely convinced that physical reality has just changed.
The technical term for the phenomenon was Neural Synchronization Instability Induced Adrenal Response, acronym NSIIAR, pronounced Nay-Sear. It was a serious problem. In at risk people it could trigger a panic attack, heart attack, or even stroke.
Because of NSIIAR, pods had safeguards limiting play session times and monitored brain wave patterns for mental fatigue. If a safety limit was tripped, the pod forcibly kicked players from the virtual world before they drifted off.
However, many gamers were techies, programmers, or just clever enough to hack their pods and bypass these safety systems. These crafty pod-hackers discovered NSIIAR firsthand within days of the first immersive VR game launch.
Their fervent video warnings spread like wildfire through the gaming world and soon enough gaming companies released explicit NSIIAR warnings of their own.
As was the case with most technical terms, gamers never said NSIIAR, and who could blame them? Instead they referred to it as being slammed or gaffed.
Knowing that he and Bendik had cracked the delta-wave transition, Austin had his Athelons custom-built without any safeguards. However, their breakthrough didn’t translate to the existing VR programing. It just wasn’t retroactively upgradable into the code.
So, even though they were forewarned and generally responsible about monitoring themselves in-game, full immersion was full immersion–it was designed to disconnect a player from their body. As a result, he, Racheal, and Matty were all quite familiar with the horrendous experience of being gaffed.
The best of the existing full immersion games was Novamen, it had some significant limitations, but gamers loved it. Austin and company had logged some noteworthy hours playing together.
It was playing Novamen that they’d all had at least one instance of getting gaffed. After comparing notes about their individual experiences, they concluded it was probably akin to
having a grenade go off next to you, less the shrapnel.
To tackle the NSIIAR problem, Bendik and Austin massively expanded the sync between brain and computer system.
Then they created a sleeper protocol which ran in the background, constantly translating the VR data into a muted version that the sleeping mind was accustomed to.
This distinction was Austin’s breakthrough. The sleeping world diverged from the waking world and needed a separate and distinct reality to handle that.
Making the sleeper protocol work required full cranial neural-nanite integration with a complete real time sync, even with the inactive parts of the brain. The bandwidth needed for this was magnitudes greater, far beyond the capacity of other games and pods.
Texier neural nanites and the Athelon had that bandwidth. Kuora, when it launched, would be the first virtual world without a play session limit.
Planning for this, the Texier hardware guys had created a system called SCANIPAS–short for Subcutaneous Actuated Nanite Injection Port System.
Austin called it Snips.
Snips was essentially a collar that housed a bunch of needles. Before immersion, the collar numbed the area around a single injection site and actuated one needle to inject the intracranial nanites. These traveled to the brain, synced with sensors in the helmet, and the immersion began.
Only after transitioning to VR did the bulk of the needles actuate. These supplied life-support nanites that immediately began carrying nutrients in and waste out. All in all, it was pretty slick.
With this in mind and knowing such a system was absolutely critical to their long-term beta test. Austin viewed his pods with profound confusion–the Snips system was gone.
After no small amount of cursing and rising anxiety as he poked around the pod interior, Austin had to step back from the problem.
Fortunately, Matty had long ago edged Austin out of his role as the top pod guru in their group. So, his friend knew the system and could navigate it with skill.
In truth, it wasn’t actually a knowledge thing; his buddy just loved playing with the pods. In this moment, with his brain on the fritz, Austin was incredibly grateful.
Matty took long minutes doing a meticulous system check, while Austin paced the room. Then he leaned away from the panel, and pointed at an item in the life-support menu. “There.” Austin and Racheal rushed to see.
Gene-specific nanite mist.
“That’s new,” Matty stated. “Shows up in the neural link menu too.” He looked at Austin. “You’re certain you did not upgrade these?”
“What? No. No, I mean. Yes, I’m certain I did not,” Austin replied, his tone annoyed but considering the line. Gene-specific… so it’s personalized per user. And, it’s a mist… why would it be a mist?
He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly. “Okay, bud. The fact that this is here at all worries me. A lot. That said, it sounds intriguing and it seems to have replaced Snips. I’m not a big fan of needles, even if I am passed out. So, if you can, please explain how it works.”
Matty nodded, twisting to rest against the pod. “I can and I will.” He smiled. “It has a technical description. But that’s long and boring, so here’s the skinny. The mist does replace the Snips system. Each pod now has a hermetic seal and a new mask of adaptable gel that slithers out and covers your face.”
He mimed goo sliding over his face with his hands and waggled his eyebrows at them. Austin looked at him impatiently. Racheal chuckled.
“Okay, moving on. The mask is amazing in itself. It’s a nanite-injected polymer, capable of phase transition to a low viscosity gel. When it touches your skin, the nanites activate the phase transition, expand the mask to cover your entire face, then shift it back to solid-state, forming a seal around your head from the neck up.”
“Hold it,” Racheal said, raising a hand. She loved new tech almost as much as she loved speed and stayed on top of the latest developments. So, she knew a material capable of what Matty described didn’t exist, at least not publicly.
“That’s amazing.” Her gaze fixed on Matty then rolled down to the pod and back. “Sooo, the nanites control how the mask moves and changes?”
Matty nodded wordlessly.
Racheal’s mouth hung open. “It’s an intelligent material. That’s absolutely revolutionary. Adaptive is one thing, like Austin’s ride. But intelligent shape shifting, that’s a whole different ball game.”
Austin kept quiet. It wasn’t new to him, but intelligent adaptive material was one area his father had explicitly forbade him to talk about. He noticed Racheal scowling at him. “What?”
“You’re too quiet, that’s what.”
“I don’t have anything to say.” It was a lame reply and he knew it.
“Bullshit, you knew about this, didn’t you? I’ll bet this has been around for years. Why keep quiet now? We know about it. Hell, we’re about to use it!”
She was right and Austin knew it. Before now, he had been right to keep quiet. Bendik had been clear–there was more on the line than his friend’s egos.
Now, they were seeing it, and he was just dealing with slightly frazzled nerves and falling back on old habits. Technically, he hadn’t known about intelligent materials outside of Grak, but laterally adapting the tech to accomplish something other than stopping missiles? Yeah, that was simple enough to imply.
“Yeah, I knew about it. My father’s had smart adaptive materials for at least a few years that I know of. I think he let me in on the development as an indirect way of warning me he was working on something big. But, so far he’s just been gone for a couple years and nothing’s happened.” He shrugged. “Now you guys know about it too.”
“Yep, Okay. So, smart goo’s a thing. Now we’re all on the inside, annnd, I want the floor back, so chill out Rach.” Matty said, leveling a teacher look at her.
“Right, fine. I know we’re not crystal cleared or whatever. Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Matty enunciated. “Moving right along to more cool new stuff. The nanites in the gel also maintain your face while you’re under, cutting facial hair, cleaning pores, and apparently nourishing and repairing the collagen and elastin.
“They do this to ensure the mask maintains a good seal. But in reality, it sounds to me like the most intense facial on the planet and I’m pretty sure staying in this pod is going to make us look younger.” His audience of two nodded, exchanging appreciative looks.
“This next bit though, this is great.” Lines bunched tight about Matty’s eyes above his mischievous smile.
“The nanites are coded with specific gene markers for each one of us, which has to do with your immune system. They’re suspended in a mist you inhale and pass through the mucous membranes in your nose, mouth, throat, and lungs.
“Like the Snips, they deliver a small nourishment package and then collect a small amount of waste. But unlike Snips, where the injection site is the same as the reclamation site, these mist nanites continue through your intestines, exiting your body just as Mother Nature intended.”
His grin split, showing teeth, and Matty looked at them like he’d just opened a cosmically astounding present.
When his friends exchanged a flat glance and Racheal, with a disaffected tone, said, “Sounds good, not sure why you’re all Cheshire cat though.” Her comment was forced, and it showed in the corner of her mouth, Matty knew the look. He also knew it was payback for his dismissing her earlier irritation. He didn’t care.
“Oh, come on you two. This is hilarious! Why aren’t you laughing?” Matty exclaimed as he did laugh. “We are literally going to be constantly farting nanites! Nanite farts! I mean, the nanites don’t fart, we do–fucking nanite farts!”
Austin chuckled. He appreciated the levity. Matty was clever, driven, and he loved the guy for his easy-going, inquisitive nature. But at age 32, he was forever the adolescent, and his sense of humor continued to focus on fart jokes.
Matty turned and gestured emphatically at the pod, usin
g both hands and a wide stance. “There’s even a semi-permeable area in the gel cushion where the nanites are collected and recirculated.”
Eyes big and mouth slightly open, he looked between them expectantly, waiting for either to get the joke–they didn’t. “Seriously? You guys suck.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation, “This is just too good. It’s got a damnable fart scrubber!”
Austin started laughing softly, but it was directed at his friend, not the comedic value of an immersion pod with a fart scrubber.
Racheal’s resolve broke, and she shook her head, snickering. “It is pretty funny actually. I never imagined the most advanced tech on the planet would include something to clean my ass-gas…” She trailed off into a belly laugh.
“Thank you! Yes! It’s fucking ridiculous. This is literally the most sophisticated piece of equipment I’ve ever seen, and it sucks farts out of my body!”
“Yeah. When you put it like that, it’s damn funny,” Austin agreed.
“Dude, this is awesome,” Matty continued. “Aside from being hilarious, it’s also way more efficient. The nutrients are delivered more directly, and waste is removed via its natural path. No more needle bundles or worries about nanite bottlenecks in fatty tissue or localized swelling after a long session. All shit I was worried about. This is a huge upgrade!”
Austin nodded, smiling as he listened and reflected. His friend’s enthusiasm had oddly reassured him. And he needed the reassurance, because despite being groundbreaking, the nanite mist was a complete mystery.
He had no idea where the Snips system had gone, or this mist system had come from. Just being amazing didn’t make it trustworthy. Or alleviate his concern over someone messing with his pods. Well, maybe it makes it a little less scary, he admitted to himself.
The sophistication of tech developed in this building stood at the very cutting-edge of humanity’s capability. And even more so in nanitics where Texier Quantum Labs remained decades ahead, and the undisputed world leader.