In Beta

by Prescott Harvey

  “When that fog opened up, looked like it was going to pee all over me this morning.”

  A few chuckles. A fat man was regaling the other end of the table with his own tale:

  “I had a twisted gut, see?”

  He held up his shirt so everyone could see his scars.

  “Doctor did a little slit, stuck a camera in. Opened ’er up, and there’s a bunch of hair in there. I swear he musta played tiddlywinks while he was in there; woke up sore as ever.”

  It seemed that everyone at the table had an injury. Their stories were stacked into a sort of game, who could top who. Judging by the flat reactions, it was a game they played often. A skinny man with a cane walked in and settled himself at the end of the table, while a dark-skinned Latino with an arm in a cast spoke up.

  “I got up on the ladder, and the ladder won. Fell flat on my back, so I was seeing little birdies. Got up and made my way to the truck before I went down again for the count. Good thing I woke up when I did, otherwise, the coyotes woulda picked me clean.”

  There were a few generous chuckles.

  The swinging front door rotated open, and a golden retriever padded into the room. A few of the men glanced over. The waitress straightened from refilling coffee cups and pointed toward the door.

  “AJ! No, AJ, go home!”

  The golden retriever merrily ignored her, making a lap around the table, stopping at chairs to wag ingratiatingly.

  Jay watched casually. If his dad were alive, he would’ve been the same age as the men at the table. The same age as Hal, in real life. And Liz. He tried to imagine what it would be like to see any of those old-timers thrust suddenly back into high school. Who had been a John, and who had been a Jay? But then he realized that they’d all been Jays. The Johns were managers at the mill, and would never be caught dead in the Morning Market.

  Stevie sipped her coffee, nodding at nothing to keep her tired eyes open. The ever-present smile on her face drooped, as though it might disappear.

  “So we’re living in a computer game”—she turned slowly to Liz—“and she’s the main player?”

  They all sat, patient, waiting to see how she’d react. Jay half-expected Stevie’s eyes to glaze over, like he’d seen with the others. Hal had promised the ability for other NPCs to contemplate their own existence. It had worked for Colin. Would it work for Stevie, too?

  Liz drained her coffee. Stevie nodded at the mug.

  “Does it work?”

  “What?”

  “The coffee. Does it affect you? ’Cause if you’re a player, the program can feed you sight, smell, touch, and taste. But it can’t control biological processes. Like, can it simulate the effects of caffeine?”

  Stevie leaned in, more alert by the second. Not only had she managed to grasp the truth of their reality, her little computer brain was already picking apart the pieces.

  The first glow of dawn was hitting the tops of the buildings and trees along Main Street. They sat in the farthermost table in the Mark. The skinny waitress came by and automatically filled their coffee mugs.

  “No, it does not simulate the effects of caffeine,” Liz deadpanned. “But anyway, I’m a decaf girl.”

  Stevie nodded.

  Jay sipped from his own mug. “I gotta say, Stevie, when I pictured your reaction, pure joy wasn’t what I expected.”

  “Well, come on.” She nodded. “Can you honestly say you’ve never thought about the possibility?”

  “That we’re living in a computer simulation? Can’t say it crossed my mind.”

  “I mean, it’s not exactly a new idea. Neal Stephenson did it in Snow Crash?”

  Jay thought back to the unopened novel on his bookshelf.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Well,” Stevie said, and leaned in, excited, “ever since that book’s publishing, there has been speculation on message boards that the metaverse might be real. That the book itself might be some sort of clue”—Stevie waggled her eyebrows excitedly—“to the true nature of reality.”

  “You realize all those message boards were Hal, right?” Jay spoke up. He remembered that Hal had praised Snow Crash in his editorial column in Serious Gamer.

  “You think?”

  “Oh yeah. That guy you were crushing on from Australia? Hal. So if he was talking up Snow Crash on your forums, he wanted us to guess the truth.”

  Stevie sighed dreamily. “I used to dream that the world was a simulation.”

  Jay dumped sugar into his coffee. “Lucky for you.”

  “No, think about it. A reality created through chance is random. You have no control. Nothing is fair. In a simulated reality, you can change the outcome. You can control your fate.”

  Liz snapped her fingers. “Jay, what happens when you click on me in The Build? I don’t suppose there’s a Disconnect button? A stop-liz’s-brain-from-uploading button?”

  Jay shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “No, so we need three things. The first is a way to get me out. The second is a way to get Hal in so he can’t see me get out. And the third is a way to keep Hal in here long enough for me to call the cops.”

  Colin shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable. “You’re sure we can’t kill him?”

  “Not unless I wrap my hands around his fat little neck in the real world.”

  Jay piped up. “What if we freed you while he’s asleep? You could tie him up and call the cops.”

  “I gotta get out tonight, before the upload finishes.”

  She turned to Stevie. “Stevie, in my world, according to Facebook, you’re CTO of your own tech start-up. So you must be good with computers?”

  They stared at her.

  “What’s a CTO?” Stevie asked.

  “What’s Facebook?” Colin continued.

  Liz gritted her teeth. “Okay, forget that. Can you hack The Build or not?”

  Stevie shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, this program was made in the future, right? How many new programming languages have there been in the last thirty years? Hard to say, without looking at it.”

  “Okay, so first thing: let’s get Stevie in front of The Build. Jay, how good is your memory?”

  “Right now? Photographic.”

  “You said Hal left you clues, that he was foreshadowing the nature of reality? Can you think of anything else he might have shown you? Any other hints he might have dropped that could give us any more clues?”

  “God, I dunno. I’ve got eighteen years of memories. Where should I start?”

  “Just—look. Anything could help.”

  Jay nodded. His brain was already flipping through images.

  He was himself as a toddler, moving unevenly over the bumpy banks of the Skookullom, lifting and overturning rocks, while his father was downstream, holding a fishing rod. He flashed forward to the steelhead his dad had caught that day. It was so big, they took it to the Mark afterward, and had it weighed and its picture taken. The picture was still on the wall. Jay glanced up, as he always did, in the Mark at the faded photograph.

  A black wave passed before his eyes. Another memory he didn’t recognize, so brief, it was gone before it started.

  The waitress bustled over and held up a coffeepot. Colin solemnly shook his head. She spun around, back to the long table. The voices of the millworkers erupted in another chorus of laughter.

  Jay thought back to some of those flashes when he’d first boosted his stats. Like the memory of looking out at the ocean. Or the one watching the police car from an apartment window.

  “There is something weird with my memory. I–I think Hal messed it up. There are some moments in my head—memories—and I don’t know where they came from. They’re not even from Bickleton.”

  Colin blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Liz’s face was impassive, waiting. Colin, Stevie, and L
iz were all staring at Jay.

  “Let me see if I can—” He shut his eyes, pushing past the memories of his dad. Searching his brain for another unfamiliar flash.

  It happened. He was transported into a black room. He could smell old coffee grinds and pizza sauce. The only light was from the glow of the computer screen before him. He was hunched over, like he didn’t want anyone to see his screen. A hot anger coursed through his veins. The sound of muffled laughter came through one of the walls, and he knew the laughter was directed at him.

  Another flash. He was sitting behind the window of a coffee shop. The sun was dazzlingly white, hot on his hands. The street outside was crowded and full of cars. Nobody was looking his way, but he saw everybody. Three girls in bright pastel dresses strode past. They were all speaking at once, gesturing wildly with their hands. He watched them breeze past, fighting a reflexive surge of hatred that welled up inside him. He wanted the girls to look at him, but at the same time, he despised them, knowing how they would react when they saw him. The girls crossed out of the window frame and disappeared. They never looked his direction.

  That memory was gone, and he was in a new memory. Again it was dark, but not so dark he couldn’t see. Boxes were stacked against the hallway walls, all the way to the ceiling. There was little room to move, but he felt safe in the crowded house. Excited, even. He’d waited for this day for years. Today he added the final touch to his masterpiece. He moved smoothly through the house, down the hall, to the far bedroom. The room was clean and white. A single desk lamp cast a warm glow over a twin bed. Looming over it was an IV pole with a drip bag, an EKG machine, and a small table. Lying in the middle of the white bed was a giant black dot—a helmet—with black cords snaking off the side of the bed.

  He did some quick mental calculations. The upload process would take two weeks. He could do pieces at a time, though, and he planned to take breaks. Still, it was good to take preparations. He pulled off his pants and slipped on a pair of Depends diapers. His stomach was full of the three grilled cheese sandwiches he’d forced himself to eat. He sat down on the bed and inserted the IV into his left arm. He picked up a clear plastic tube and maneuvered it under his diaper, grunting through a moment of pain as he pushed it inside his body. It was uncomfortable, but the pain was already starting to fade. He reached down and grabbed the smooth black plastic helmet, lifting it to his head. As he did so, his eyes caught a reflection. On the wall across from the bed hung a small mirror, where he could see himself. It was a saggy, wrinkled face he recognized. Hal’s face. The helmet came down over his eyes, blocking his view.

  Then the memory was gone, and Jay was left gasping in the Morning Market. Sunlight was filtering through the windows. Some of the millworkers were standing, stretching their injuries to prepare for another day of brutal labor.

  Stevie, Liz, and Colin were staring at Jay, who was breathing in short, ragged gasps.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m Hal.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m his upload.”

  Liz’s whole body tensed as she watched Jay. Finally, she gave a terse nod. “I know.”

  Harold

  The Batmobile’s engine whirred furiously, shuttering vibrations down the car’s frame as they tore toward the school. The sun was fresh over the mountains and covering Bickleton in a warm orange glow. Liz rode shotgun. Jay stared out his small window in the back. He could see Stevie casting sidelong glances his way, and ignored her. He wanted to be alone.

  Why hadn’t Hal told him? Why hadn’t Liz told him?

  Because, a small voice in his mind answered, they knew how you’d react. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

  The car hit a pothole and its tires squealed against the frame. They’d never had four people inside the Batmobile before. His eyes wandered to the front windshield, and he saw Stevie was still staring at him.

  “Why are you Jay, if he’s Hal?”

  Colin glanced in the rearview mirror. “Jay Harold Banksman,” he responded quietly.

  Jay felt sick. Self-loathing overwhelmed him. Everything that disgusted him about Hal—the sallow, saggy flesh, the insecurity when he spoke, his pettiness—it was inside him, too. He would grow up to turn into that sad little man.

  He thought back to all the anger he’d felt in Hal’s memories. The resentment. Hal had lived a life of bitterness, and that was his path ahead. He shared Hal’s temper, he knew, especially when Jeremy was involved. But he didn’t feel angry all the time. Hal had said he was saving Jay from a lifetime of regret and disappointment. Life didn’t get better when you left Bickleton, he’d claimed. It got worse. Whatever pain Hal had suffered in the last thirty years led him to make this game. Jay closed his eyes. He didn’t want to make any more changes. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

  “You mentioned something about Facebook?” Stevie was talking to Liz now. “What is that? What’s a CTO?”

  Liz was looking out the window as if she expected to see Hal hitchhiking down the road. “Chief Technology Officer. You do just fine.”

  Colin jumped in. “What about the future? Are there flying cars?”

  The Batmobile hit another pothole. Liz shook her head. “No flying cars. The biggest difference is the internet. It’s everywhere. And artificial intelligence. It’s made huge leaps in the last few years, it powers everything, and it’s—well, you guys know better than anyone.”

  Stevie stared out her window with a blissful grin. “Cool . . .”

  “Oh, and everyone has mobile computers now, called smart devices. You can play games on them, watch cat videos, check email, call people. But mostly cat videos.”

  “Does Bill Clinton really bring about a new era of prosperity?”

  “Oh, that’s a complicated one. Bill Clinton stays president for two terms, but then in the late nineties he almost gets impeached for having an affair.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. And all this nasty stuff comes out about him. And honestly, things kinda go downhill after that. Like, in a few decades, Hillary Clinton runs for president.”

  “What?!”

  “And loses to Donald Trump.”

  “The Donald Trump? The guy in People magazine and the National Enquirer? The guy with Marla Maples?”

  Liz nodded.

  “Your world sounds even crazier than ours.” Colin squirmed. “You sure it’s not a simulation?”

  “What else?” Liz continued. “NAFTA is gone, but only recently. Ruth Bader Ginsburg just passed away, after becoming something of a folk hero. Oh, and Mark Wahlberg is now a movie star.”

  Colin turned to her. “You mentioned Stevie is a CTO? What am I?”

  “Oh!” Liz responded, remembering. “So this is interesting. I just saw an article about this a few months ago. You remember Blockbuster?”

  Colin nodded. “What do you mean, ‘remember’?”

  “Well, it’s gone. Now you can watch movies through the internet, so nobody needs DVDs—”

  “What’s a DVD?”

  “Gosh, you guys are still—okay, well, nobody needs VHS tapes anymore. So Blockbuster went out of business, except one store in Bend, Oregon. And, Colin, I saw in that article: you’re the assistant manager.”

  A faraway look passed over Colin’s eyes. “Assistant manager?”

  Liz shook her head. “Yep. I recognized the picture.”

  A grin played over Colin’s lips. “Do I get free game rentals?”

  “C’mon, focus,” Liz snapped.

  They pulled into the C-Court parking lot, and it was empty in the early morning light. Steam wafted off the dark pavement and C-Court roof where the sun touched them. Colin opened his door and damp air sucked into the car.

  “What time is it?” Jay heard Liz ask.

  “6:27. Miss Rotchkey usually comes in around seven thirty.”

  “Let’s do what we
can.”

  Colin and Stevie stole their way up through the pines, to Tutorial. Liz fell behind to walk with Jay.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was trying to feed it to you in smaller doses.”

  Jay glanced up. “Oh, you mean the sham of my existence?”

  “C’mon, it might be a good thing for us. You know Hal better than anyone. You have his memories. You can tell us what he wants, what he’s up to.”

  “Yeah. Great,” Jay muttered.

  He broke away, moving off the trail, pushing his way through the pine trees to the side of Tutorial, and leapt up, grabbing the window ledge and then pushing the unlocked window open. He didn’t want to be there, with Colin and Stevie geeking out on their fantastic futures. His future was not fantastic. He felt sick about the man he would become, and fell into the classroom, opening the door for the other three.

  Stevie stepped tentatively inside, in awe that she was breaking so many rules.

  “Can I see the disk?”

  Jay handed it to her silently, and she expertly took her seat, twirling open the root folder to find the primary game file. She pulled it into Microsoft Word and opened a document of code.

  “Okay, that’s right, it’s written in C. That’s good, I know C. So this is just a UI for us to access the real game engine. Somewhere in this code, it’s receiving and sending inputs to the actual engine. Whatever that program is, it’s obviously powerful enough to also run a simulated version of Windows 3.1 . . . and simulate an entire world.”

  Jay fell into his desk, not listening. He put his head in his hands. For eighteen years, he imagined a life outside of Bickleton. A life where he made friends, met girls. Now, there was not only no escaping, but even if he left, he didn’t have a prayer. Hal had gotten out of Bickleton, and he had not made friends or met girls. He had grown lonely, awkward, and inward, festering. How? How could Jay grow up to be that dumpy, hateful man?

  Colin sat down in the desk beside him.