by Bruce Bethke
However, in Heaven, we do tend to enhance this effect by drinking heavily.
Heaven was like, totally cool. In the spring of 2005 I believed it was simply the place to hang, if you were anything on the Net. To me it was like the best party I ever wasn’t invited to, the funkiest nightclub I’d ever chickened out of going into, and the sharpest peer group I ever wished I’d stumbled upon, all rolled into one. Heaven was a dark, crowded, smoky, loud, and crazy kind of place: an island of glorious anarchy in a sea of bland consumerism; a monument to dangerous choices in an otherwise safe and boring world.
Heaven had the best music, best mind-messing substances, and best bad brains on the entire planet. It was a place where you could go party till you dropped, dance the night away (in Heaven, even I could dance), have virtual sex on the baccarat tables, or even cut a deal for some stolen plutonium, if that was your thing.
In retrospect, it probably should have occurred to me to wonder why the NetPolice never closed us down.
Dramatic entrances are for the pathetically insecure. I flooped out of the a-grav tube and strolled into the club, cool and slow, checking it out. Nice crowd, for a Monday. The usual mix: a few elves, a dwarf or two, a cluster of cyborgs sitting up near the front, laughing like tin cans and playing poker for body parts. A couple of insectoid aliens having drinks with a couple of clanking metal battlemechs; a party of old 2-D cartoon characters, one gone so far retro as to be black-and-white, all having a great time bonking each other over the head with big wooden mallets and giggling like an entire troop of Girl Scouts. With a discreet nod here and a small wave there, I established my presence, made eye contact with the regulars.
Like the spectacularly obese Don Luigi Vermicelli, who was holding court at his usual table in the far left corner, flanked by troughs of pasta and meatballs, twitchy young men in expensive suits with slick hair and automatics in shoulder holsters, and a matched pair of overinflated bimbos who appeared to be wearing nothing but jewelry. (I tend to stay away from the Princesses of Mars, myself. Half of them turn out to be guys in drag.)
Or the inhumanly barbaric Jesse Chainsawhands, doing bouncer duty by the dance floor, where a spikey-haired virtual pfunk band was blasting away over the heads of a jam-packed mosh pit and a comfortably loud level of music was leaking through the imaginary transparent soundproof wall. Whoever the real person was behind Jesse, I guessed he was ex-military. Once again, I threw Jesse a friendly little salute, and once again, he reflexively returned it and nearly decapitated himself.
(I should point out, everyone who makes it into Heaven does so under an assumed name. That’s part of the game: keeping your real world identity secret and trying to guess everybody else’s. The guy who started that, they say, DON_MAC.)
And speaking of DON_MAC, there he was, in a dark corner off to Jesse’s left: poor, lonely, DON_MAC, last of the werebots. Just sitting there, sulking and rusting, sucking his Pennzoil & Lime and alternating between glaring with red photoelectric eyes at the table to his left—where a foursome of mutant ninjas were waving their katanas wildly and arguing over the bloody remains of a (what I hoped was nonplayer) character—and the table to his right, where a party of characters in burnooses and kaffiyehs sat muttering to themselves and K polishing their AK-47s.
DON_MAC could be telepathic, when he wanted to be. I caught his gaze, pointed to the Arabs, then tapped my forehead.
Yes, Max? DON_MAC thought.
“The table next to you,” I subvoked. “New kids on the Net?”
Yes, and stay away from them. They’re trouble, Max.
“Oh?”
From a new node in the WorldNet: Kabul, Afghanistan. Just came online this week. They’re teenage mujahadin.
“What?”
Khyberpunks.
Oh. I broke contact with DON_MAC and wandered on.
More elves, more superheroes; a pathetically misplaced pair of teeny-doomer flaming skullheads, dressed like the cover of the latest Offspring album. The usual spillovers from the casino.
DON’T PET THE PTERODACTYLS
And whatever you do, don’t pet the pterodactyls, no matter how tame they may seem. The pterodactyl nest (on top of the Salvador Dali melting grandfather clock] is literally filled with severed hands.
(Some advice here. Don’t try too hard to visualize this. The basic geometry of Heaven was designed by the legendary “Cowboy Bret” Bollix, and it is not Euclidean. That wall in the back that seems to recede into an infinite black void really does, and the pools of ambient light over the tables are just that: pools of monodirectional light, with no source. There are places in Heaven where gravity is purely local; invisible private rooms you can get into only by starting in exactly the right spot and then walking exactly the right sequence of steps and turns; there’s even a phased-space room, where who you meet and what you see depends on which door you came in. And be careful where you step in the Jobs Memorial Lounge: some of those black floor tiles are actually virtual teleport pads that will deposit you in some really embarrassing places in the InfoMall.)
I continued to work the room. No sign of Gunnar. That was bad. I made my way over to the island of light that was the main bar and found that Sam was working that night.
Not Sam from Cheers. Our Sam was a masterful piece of work: a personality simulator, yes, but created by someone with an absolute pathological love of Casablanca. Sam looked up from polishing an imaginary spot on the mahogany bar nodded at me, and said, “Evening, Mr. Kool. Nice to see you again.”
“Evening, Sam.” I found an open barstool and sat down.
“COWBOY BRET” BOLLIX
One of the legendary personalities on the Net, about whom many legends are told. A recent posting from JPL/Pasadena includes calculations proving that if Cowboy Bret, Captain Crash, and Diana Von Babe actually did everything they are credited with doing, the three of them would have a cumulative age of 640 years.
Sam flipped his towel over his shoulder, picked up an empty glass, and started clinking ice into it. “The usual, Mr. Kool?”
I nodded. “I suppose.” Sam put the glass on the bar and poured in two fingers of Kentucky bourbon. (I know, I know, in Heaven I could have had anything—since all I was really doing was picking a filter algorithm to skew my virtual perception slightly—but for some reason, I’d settled on virtual bourbon.)
Sam slid the glass across the bar. “I’ll just put this on your tab, then. Anything else, Mr. Kool?”
I shook my head. “Nah.” Then I reconsidered. “You seen Gunnar in here tonight?”
Sam scratched his chin and simulated thought. “Mr. Gunnar was in here about an hour ago, asking for you.”
“Is he in here now?”
Sam shook his head. “I can’t rightly say.”
I nodded. Knowing Sam, that statement could mean any one of about six different things, all of which resolved to having to find out for myself. “Okay, Sam. Thanks.” Someone at the other end of the bar called for Sam, and he left. I tried a sip of the bourbon—it was tasteless, of course. That’s how I can smoke and drink in virtual reality. No taste, and no physical effects. In the real world, bourbon makes me puke like in The Exorcist.
“Max Kool?” a voice said behind me. I turned around. There was some young geek standing there: orange mohawk hair, mirrored sunglasses grafted onto his cheekbones, implants and chip sockets popping out like acne on his forehead. A whole dimestore’s worth of cheap jewelry pierced through his ears and lips, and his mouth reminded me of a walleye I once met on Lake Mille Lacs. I felt a profound desire to put him on a stringer.
“Are you the Max Kool?” he asked, a trace of nervous awe in his voice. “The guy who created Silicon Jungle?”
I sighed and weighed my response. “Yeah,” I said at last. “That’s me.” Silicon Jungle was a MUD I designed as a student project at the U, when I was about eighteen years old.
“I’m Hotwire!” the kid said brightly. Yep, now that he mentioned it, I could see the resemblance. “And I’
ve got to tell you, I have been playing SJ since I was twelve years old, and it is just the coolest MUD around!” Funny, I’d never pictured Hotwire as a nerd with complexion problems before.
“I’m flattered,” I said as I reached for my drink.
“No, really,” he said. “I mean, I’ve hung around Stardrome some, and every now and then I go into Elf Trek for a few laughs, but Silicon Jungle is my life! I’m on the SJ Net Forum, and I’ve read that official SJ novel by Dafydd ab Hugh, and I’ve got all the issues of the comic book starting with number one! And now I finally get to meet you. It’s just so, so—”
I lifted my glass to my lips, took a long drink, and considered the kid as seen over the rim. What should I say? That I never made nickel one from Silicon Jungle? That the university owned the copyright, and they sold it to a commercial online service without even telling me? That whatever the hell it was he was playing now, it was the result of five years of expansion and development by game designers I’d never even talked to, and that the one time I tried to pop into the SJ Net Forum, I got laughed out?
Or should I stick to the obvious: that it was pretty damn pathetic for him to build his life around a character in a game?
I lowered the glass. “That’s wonderful,” I said, nodding. “Always nice to meet a fan.” I gave him a handshake and a big virtual smile. “I’d love to talk with you more about it, but there’s a guy over there,” I made a gesture in a vague direction, “that I’ve been trying to catch up with all weekend.” Before the kid could react I hopped off the barstool, disappeared around the corner, and ducked behind a large potted plant. Not a philodendron. Some kind of midget palm tree, I think.
“About damn time you got here,” the tree snarled.
I jumped back. “Gunnar?”
“Shh.” The tree looked around nervously, then morphed into Gunnar. Not that it was a big change: Gunnar’s normal aspect was that of a totally camouflaged human commando, all tiger-striped black and green, from the tips of his stubbly green hair to the toes of his mottled green boots.
“I’m field-testing a new aspect,” he said in a whisper. “Practicing the art of not being seen.”
“Right.” Now that the initial shock was wearing off, I was starting to feel peeved. “I got your message. What’s up?”
“All in good time, Max. All in good time.” Gunnar looked around again, then stepped over to the bar and raised his voice. “Sam! A cold Kirin for me, and—what’re you drinking, Max?” He looked at my glass. “A bourbon for my friend here!” Every head within earshot turned to stare at us.
“Just picked up a new toy, Max!” Gunnar said, in a voice way too loud. “A pre-‘94 Colt H-bar Sporter, in mint condition! Never been fired! Some geek stockbroker bought it fifteen years ago and buried it in his basement, waiting for the end of the world! He cacked from a major coronary a few weeks back, and his widow was all set to turn it in to the Brady Bureau until she found out what she could get for it cash!”
Every head within earshot turned away, the conversations resumed, and I finally figured out what Gunnar was up to. “Oh, Gunnar and Max are talking about guns again,” I heard a beautiful jewel-skinned reptile woman say.
“The art of not being heard,” Gunnar whispered in my ear, as he leaned forward and grabbed his beer off the bar. “Make them not want to listen.” I felt him press a chip into my hand. “Some drop-dead gorgeous babe’s been blundering around MilNet for the past week, asking if anyone knows how to find MAX_KOOL. This is her card.” He leaned back again, took a deep slug of his beer, and belched like a Norse god.
“I got the Dillon on autopilot right now!” he said. “By Saturday we oughta have enough ammo loaded to have some real fun! What d’ya say? Wanna come over and bust some caps?”
Sam froze. A hush fell. All eyes were on us again. I caught Gunnar’s wink and played along. “Nice try,” I said, as I lit a cigarette. “Meet you in real time? You’ll tell me your true name if I tell you mine?” I took a deep drag on the ciggy, and blew a stream of blue smoke in his face.
“Don’t think so, kid.”
Gunnar went tight. His fists clenched. His eyes squinted. His jaw muscles bulged.
“GUNNAR SAVAGE”
Real name: Joseph LeMat. Occupation: independent software consultant. Age: approx. 37. Identifying marks: pronounced chip on shoulder, courtesy of ex-wife.
The truth of the matter, as should be evident by now, is that I do know Gunnar in real time. In fact, we’d just had lunch together about two weeks before. But since everyone else in Heaven was there under an assumed name, they didn’t need to know that Gunnar and Max Kool both lived in the same city and were friends in real time. Hence our little charade.
The scene broke loose. Gunnar roared and threw a sloppy punch. I ducked it easily and had my monomolecular switchblade out of my sleeve and under his nose before he could recover his stance. He glared down at the gleaming blade a moment, then lowered his hands, and opened his lists, and took a step back.
“One of these days,” Gunnar growled. “One of these days, Kool.” He pantomimed a pistol. “Pow! Right in the kisser!”
I casually folded the switchblade with one thumb and made it disappear. “In your dreams, jarhead.”
Two hours later: after shooting a few rounds of ØF ball, after ducking behind the bar while the ninjas had a brawl with the khyberpunks (Jesse Chainsawhands won), after bailing out of Heaven and closing down a couple of late-night chat nodes. Me and the Harley were deep into BusinessWorld, cruising slow down an empty backstreet, virtual headlight off.
I hated BusinessWorld.
I mean, like, I really hated BusinessWorld. Hated being there in those cold, dark, soulless streets. Hated looking at it, all those miles and miles of huge, gray, windowless corporate data structures. But most of all I hated what it stood for.
Which, I guess, is why I liked to go down there every few weeks and plant a couple of virtual stinkbombs.
Weird. I took a scan around for NetCops and saw I was alone, then pulled the bike into a deep shadow and cut the engine. According to the chip Gunnar gave me, the place I was looking for was supposed to be along here. Maybe I’d made a mistake?
I pulled the chip out of the palm of my dataglove, pushed it into the skin of my forehead, and watched the message holo into view again. For a good time, interface ♥AMBER♥@alt.XXX.sex.com. The message was simple enough.
The medium, however, was extremely interesting. Basically, I what I saw from the chip was the scrolling text of the message mapped onto the body of an incredibly beautiful black-haired woman who was silently dancing to what must have been some really evil music. Her long, silky hair was flying, and her slender athletic body was thrashing and gyrating, and her hands were moving like—and her lips like—and her… and her…
I pulled the chip out of my forehead, took a few deep breaths, and wished I could conjure up a virtual cold shower. Gunnar had said the woman who was wandering around MilNet was drop-dead gorgeous. If the babe in the holo was her, Gunnar was, for once, not exaggerating.
I pushed the chip into the palm of my dataglove again, and checked the datapath. Yup, this was definitely the right domain. But alt.XXX was a blank wall. Featureless. Empty. Total empty desolate void. Like Interstate 80 in western Nebraska.
Or was it? Maybe I needed to take a closer look.
I put the kickstand down, eased the bike onto it, and dismounted. Took a slow, careful stroll up the sidewalk, my black engineer boots crunching softly on the loose data bits. I stopped in front of the blank wall. Hmm. No visible seams. No obvious handles or entry points. Maybe there was a hidden catch. I reached out with tentative fingers to probe the surface.
My hand vanished.
I jerked back with surprise, and my hand reappeared. A quick finger check: one, two, three… I think they were all there.
I screwed up my courage and tried again. Slowly, slowly, I reached forward. Fingers disappeared. Then the wrist. Then hallway up to my elbow.
&
nbsp; Ah. Tricky. A virtual virtual wall. I took a deep breath and kept pushing forward. Now I was up to my shoulder—
Something clamped onto my upper arm. Something big. There wasn’t time to react; with a sound like squishing kim chee it pulled me completely through the wall and cast me into absolute blackness. No up, no down, no floor, no walls; nothing but the sense of tumbling in the thick, moist, claustrophobic darkness, and the slow, heavy breathing of some vast beast.
Until the eyes opened: two huge, red, glowing coals of eyes that swam up out of the blackness and fixed me like a bug on a pin. When it spoke, its voice was like the rumble of a volcano.
“Hello, Max,” it said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I caught my breath long enough to scream: “BUGOUT!”
Fifteen milliseconds later I was back in the real world; Netlinks shut down, switchbacks disabled, bridges blown and circuit breakers engaged. The virtual reality aspect that was MAX_KOOL was a cloud of randomizing electrons in a Netspace databank somewhere, and everything that could even remotely possibly link Jack Burroughs to MAX and what had just happened in BusinessWorld was being erased and deleted faster than I could even think about it.
I told you I always password my exits.
Still, that’d been too close. I unstrapped my videoshades, peeled off my headset, and shrugged out of my datagloves. Between shudders of raw fear I had time to wonder: what the hell was that, that had grabbed hold of me? My scalp and armpits were drenched with sweat; my bladder was screaming for relief. I staggered up out of my bucketseat, started toward the bathroom, and caught a glimpse of my bedside clock: 1:27 A.M.
Well, whatever that monster was, I was going to have to let the mystery sit until tomorrow.
And hope to God it didn’t know some way to follow me home.
6: DISASTER BELTS ONE OUT OF THE PARK
Somehow, even though I was fried so crispy you could have served me through a drive-up window, I managed to be awake, showered, shaved, Dressed For Conformity, and into the office by 7:29. It turned out to be a rather quiet and lonely place.