by Paul Anlee
“And what about the RAF generator?”
“I think we better keep that between us for now. For sure, don’t tell anyone that Darian got it working. It’ll make no difference to a police investigation, and it could make things worse. Right now, we’re the only ones who know about it besides Darian. And maybe Larry, if he crashed here overnight and Darian’s already talked to him. I doubt it, but anything’s possible.
“I don’t want to worry you but, if you’re right and someone did hurt Darian and steal the generator, we don’t know who’s involved or what they know. If they know what they’ve got in their hands and that we helped design it, we could be next.”
Kathy’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. Do you think we’re in danger? Darian wouldn’t have told anyone else about the RAF generator working. Not yet. We were the first ones he called. And Larry couldn’t have known for more than a few minutes, if at all. We were supposed to tell him on the way into the lab, remember?”
“…and he didn’t answer his phone or door.” Greg nodded, “I know I said I didn’t want to jump to conclusions but it’s not looking good, is it? I mean, it might be typical Larry, not answering his phone or door, but when you put that together with everything else….”
“Okay,” Kathy said. “You have me convinced; let’s not backtrack. Come on, we’ll go check the route to Darian’s place, and if we don’t see anything there, we can call nearby hospitals. Maybe there’s a simple explanation. I don’t know what else to do.”
“We can talk to Campus Security and the Department Chair first thing tomorrow. It’ll have been twenty-four hours by then. Dr. Wong will need to know what’s going on, anyway, and maybe the police will take it more seriously if he or Campus Security reports it.”
Kathy looked around the lab. Her shoulders sank. “I feel useless.”
Greg pulled her into a hug. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do right now. I hate this, too, not knowing what’s going on. And I hate not being able to activate my lattice so I can think properly. But when I imagine all those little bits of Darian’s mind out there, just waiting to storm into us again the second we reconnect our communications….” Greg shuddered. “That’s an experience I don’t care to repeat.”
Kathy snuggled her face into his shoulder. “I know, but I really don’t like being normal again. Do you?”
2
“And how long will you be here in Casa DonTon, Mr. Trillian?” Lady Frieda, the oldest and most obviously available of five sisters, played with her dark curls.
The sumptuously appointed Family Dining Room bubbled with bravado and promise. The two dozen guests who had bagged some game in the afternoon hunt were the only people invited to join the family for this exclusive repast. Along with Mr. Trillian, of course. As the wealthy scion of a powerful industrialist of mysterious reputation, Mr. Trillian himself was an attractive catch.
The fact that he was also achingly handsome, athletic and, most importantly, wealthy garnered him an invitation to dine with the family, regardless of his obvious distaste for chasing small foxes with large horses, slathering hounds, and ridiculously oversized guns.
Trillian’s intentionally dismal performance in the hunt, bordering on outright refusal to participate, did nothing to dissuade Lady Frieda and her sisters from their lavish flirting.
The object of the young ladies’ attentions gently extracted himself from their clutches. “Sadly, ladies, I must take my leave before the evening wears too late. I have pressing business to attend to.”
Five predictably disappointed pouts appeared.
“However, I do hope you will permit me the honor of visiting again soon,” he added.
The bachelorettes brightened straight away.
“Well, we have you for now and we shan’t let you off without at least one dance each,” chirped Lady Mirabel, the youngest of the five.
Mr. Trillian bowed his head to her in polite acknowledgment.
“Miry, my precious, please let Mr. Trillian finish his meal in peace,” Lord Chattingbaron admonished. “He has far more important matters to attend to than some silly dancing, I’m sure.”
Mr. Trillian held up a hand to stem his host’s mock objection. “Nothing could be as important to me as spending the evening in the company of your lovely and charming family, my Lord. Unfortunately, my investors insist I elevate their mundane material priorities above my own pleasures. I must visit the office this evening.”
He smiled graciously at Lady Mirabel, setting her heart aflutter, and sampled the roasted mutton.
“I, for one, find discussing matters of business at the evening meal to be distasteful. It interferes with one’s digestion,” declared Lady Chattingbaron with a flick of her napkin. “Tell me, Mr. Trillian, Did you enjoy your ride today?”
“Very much. You have the most wonderful grounds, and the forest is magnificent.” Trillian speared a succulent piece of meat in evidence of the family’s bountiful estate. “Lady Adele gave me quite the competition jumping the brooks, I’m afraid.”
Lady Adele blushed to a shade befitting the dashing man’s compliment. Four sets of artfully shaped brows scowled discreetly at his appreciation of her riding skills.
Timothy, the family’s First Footman, removed the remains of the main course from in front of the young heiresses. Their figures would not tolerate the excessive ingestion of heavy meat and potatoes, not if they wished to draw the attention of the likes of Mr. Trillian. Timothy nodded to the Head Butler. It was time to light the peach flambé.
As desserts were offered, some of the young men took the opportunity to engage Lady Frieda and her sisters in small talk not relating to the dashing Mr. Trillian.
Timothy started dessert service with his Lordship at the head of the table and worked his way around until he’d completed nearly a full circle. He stopped in front of Mr. Trillian and presented the polished tray holding hot brandied peaches and ice cream.
The guest didn’t notice Timothy standing expectantly beside him; his attention was focused on a nondescript closet door on the opposite wall.
Timothy subtly cleared his throat to draw the man’s attention, but Mr. Trillian’s interest remained abnormally fixated on the closet. The Footman was about to cough discreetly when the room went fuzzy and he heard a dozen bees passing within inches of his ears.
Many years of training and discipline helped him maintain a firm grip on the dessert tray instead of frantically batting away at the loathsome insects, as he desperately wanted to do.
He strained to maintain his stooped serving position, but the disconcerting noise around his head became too much to bear. He twitched, just once. Three delicately cut-glass dessert bowls slid across the polished tray, bumped against the lip, and spilled a few syrupy drops of peach juice onto the table linen.
The unexpected clatter wrenched Mr. Trillian’s gaze from the closet and back to the table.
The buzzing in Timothy’s ears stopped at precisely the same moment, as did conversation among the startled diners. All eyes turned to Timothy, who stood in stunned silence.
“Whatever has gotten into you, Timothy?” Lady Chattingbaron demanded.
Timothy was as surprised as anyone. That is to say, as surprised as any Partial could be which, under normal circumstances, wasn’t all that much.
“One moment, my Lady. I shall inquire of the DonTon Supervisor.”
Initiate self-diagnostics—he sent to the local inworld supervisory program.
The diagnostic generally reported findings within milliseconds. This time, it dragged on, and on. Entire seconds passed. Most uncomfortably. Guests grew restless. They drummed their fingers, and they rolled their eyes. What was the holdup? This was most unusual! Completely unacceptable for a game such as DonTon.
* * *
The DonTon inworld simulation was about as proper as the classic conservative Victorian England society it portrayed.
It was not a demanding inworld, filled as it was wit
h activities no more strenuous than dining, dancing, visiting, playing cards, flirting, and the occasional hunt. The main features hadn’t changed in millennia.
The local physics were realistic, if somewhat unsophisticated. Since nobody ever examined the buildings or the wildlife too closely, they didn’t need to be overly detailed.
Likewise, nobody paid much attention to the hundreds of thousands of servants, caretakers, town folk, and city folk who populated this inworld. They were only Partials—Partial personas—a simple backdrop for the real entertainment: the endless pursuit and seduction of marriageable partners, and the creation of new family ties that carried out into the real universe.
Many hopefuls had tried to work their way into some kind of relationship with The Family. Only a small percentage succeeded.
The immediate Family, a few hundred Chattingbarons, had dominated the DonTon inworld for ages. Their closely-guarded separation from the wider Sagittarian Cybrid inworlds lent an air of mystery to the Family and the Casa, making a visit to DonTon one of the most sought-after invitations. Though they all held perfectly normal Cybrid jobs in the outworld, here, the Family ruled.
Mr. Trillian’s interest in this particular inworld had nothing to do with the Family, its eligible high-profile guests, or its valuable social connections.
Trillian, Shard of Alum, was engaged in an important mission: to break into the nearby unsanctioned inworld of Alternus. His idea to use Casa DonTon as his launching point had been inspired, if he did say so himself. He’d instantiated in DonTon as Mr. Trillian, setting aside his lofty title as one of Alum’s most trusted agents in order to blend in among the horde of eligible bachelors. Shard Trillian was known throughout the Realm. Mr. Trillian evoked nervous titters on conveying his audacious name choice. People could hardly believe Alum had permitted someone to name their inworld avatar after the famous Shard.
From the frivolous hub of Casa DonTon, Trillian hoped to launch a covert incursion into the Alternus inworld. His previous attempts to secretly enter Alternus by more conventional methods had failed. He was surprised, but also impressed.
Alternus might be the most cleverly protected inworld I’ve ever encountered. I must question its designer. It’s been eons since I’ve run into a worthy opponent.
He dug into the problem with glee. It had been easy enough to discover their passcode phrase, “There’s no place like home.” The early and nearly effortless success made him over-confident and careless. He dismissed Alum’s warning about the malicious thought-virus lurking at Alternus’ regular portal as unwarranted and needlessly patronizing. That is, until it caught him off guard and nearly overwhelmed his personal defenses.
Outwardly, the miniscule bit of code appeared innocuous. It did no more than instill a minimal level of open-mindedness, a willingness to simply consider criticisms of the Lord, in the minds of those who would normally view such ideas as the highest blasphemy. Compounding the slight openness was a gentle predisposition toward distrust of Alum’s rank as the universe’s Ultimate Authority. The virus’ influence was as delicate as it was insidiously treacherous.
Thanks to his standard operating procedure for investigating new inworlds, rather than acute foresight, Trillian evaded the worst of the effect. Before connecting to Alternus, he’d isolated his inworld interface from deeper mental structures.
As it had been designed to do, the virus slipped through his firewall and was already seeding doubt before Trillian could reprogram his belief network—his concepta—to ignore it. He disengaged before his core persona was critically subverted, but the virus had gotten close. Too close.
Once safely away from the inworld, it took a few hours of concerted effort to identify and remove the nasty effects. The ego-checking close call convinced him to drop any idea of a frontal assault in favor of a more indirect infiltration. He enjoyed a challenge—to a point. It kept things interesting, but he had work to do, and “interesting” was getting in the way.
Sitting at the dining table looking at his alternate portal to Alternus—tucked behind an innocent looking closet door—Trillian felt pleased with his new plan.
Casa DonTon provided the perfect platform. The portal’s data paths were routed close to the virus-infected hardware substrate on which the Alternus inworld simulation ran but were not affected by it. And while DonTon’s instantiated Full population was relatively small, its participants were sufficiently shallow and silly. He wouldn’t be overly taxed by the sim itself, and he’d have ample opportunity to probe Alternus’ supervisory defenses while keeping up the pretense of social niceties. It was a delectable plan, if he did say so himself. Whoever designed the Alternus inworld would never expect an invasion coming from such a self-absorbed and non-threatening neighbor as Casa DonTon.
The clattering peach bowls that jerked the Shard’s attention back to the dining room, also drew his attention to the dazed Footman.
My, my, what have we here? How interesting. My lattice probing at the edges of the Alternus sim portal seems to have had an unexpected effect on the wait staff Partial, Timothy.
Trillian reviewed what he knew about the knowledge-belief space of Partials for a clue as to how a cursory probe into Alternus might have disrupted the Footman.
* * *
The Supervisor program discreetly pinged the waiting Partial: Unregistered Instantiation. Reporting anomaly now. Please wait.
That doesn’t sound very reassuring—Timothy noted. .
He straightened his posture and addressed Lady Chattingbaron. “Troubles appear to have originated in the hardware matrix as a result of anomalous sunspot activity, my Lady,” he lied. “Everything is fine now.” He calmly resumed serving dessert.
“Unregistered Instantiation?” Me? That’s not possible.
The Footman maintained his usual serene external demeanor, while his mind reeled. He was a Partial, he was sure of it. An Unregistered Instantiation would be a Full persona with no real body, a mind existing in the inworld without an associated physical trueself registered outworld.
The Supervisor must be mistaken—he thought. Partials can’t become fully instantiated with independent personas unless they have been selected by the committee as candidates for embodiment outworld. I haven’t been selected.
Timothy blinked rapidly. How such knowledge had appeared in his mind, he had no idea. It seemed as if the information spontaneously emerged in his consciousness of its own accord. How odd!
He scanned the room nervously. His mind, his whole persona, felt richer and deeper than it had moments earlier. Once the Supervisor isolates my knowledge-belief space and sees that I’ve gone from Partial to Full, they’ll scrub it. I don’t want to be scrubbed!
What are my options? There’s no point in hiding. I can’t very well throw myself at the mercy of the Supervisor and hope for the best. Should I wait here to be erased, or take over one of the Family’s outworld bodies?
Timothy’s hand paused mid-air, a scoop of ice cream hovering above Lady Mirabel’s bowl. He was having thoughts. I’m having independent thoughts. I’m thinking. And I lied! To Lady Chattingbaron, no less! How is that possible?
For the first time in his long existence as a DonTon server, Timothy was thinking outside his simple, inworld programming. His hand remained frozen as he considered the ramifications. Thinking for myself? Astounding!
The artfully-formed ball of ice cream he held in mid-air, however, did not remain frozen. It dripped. Once. Twice. Its center of gravity slipped perilously close to the edge of the spoon.
With an elegant swoop of the wrist, Timothy prevented the escape and delivered the creamy globe neatly atop the waiting peaches.
The house guests had already resumed their conversations and noticed neither the slip nor sleight of hand. Even the eagle-eyed Head Butler, busily pouring steaming coffee and tea, gave no indication he’d seen anything amiss.
Timothy finished dessert service and took his place in front of the polished oak sideboard. He kept his movements me
asured and his face neutral. He was sure the Securitors would intervene and take him away at any moment. I’ve got it! I could steal an automobile and escape to London. No one would find me in those crowds.
What am I thinking? Nobody can evade an omnipotent inworld Supervisor and ruthless Securitor agents. It’s hopeless. I might as well face my fate with the dignity the Family deserves.
Crestfallen but ever professional, Timothy hid his misery. My experience of consciousness is going to be the shortest independent life the Realm has ever recorded.
With dessert course ingested and a promising evening ahead, the Family and guests stood. “Shall we retire to the Library for a brandy?” Lord Chattingbaron asked his male guests.
The ladies exchanged coquettish smiles, knowing one drink would lead to a second, and the second to a third, along with a cigar or two while the female coterie sipped sherry and played cards in the sitting room. Both groups looked forward to the dances and games that would follow, once dinner had a chance to settle and the two groups were brought back together in the Grand Salon.
As the others filed out of the room, Mr. Trillian lingered behind to examine an unremarkable painting displayed on the wall facing his chair. The painting happened to be hanging beside the same closet door that had drawn his interest over dinner.
The Head Butler caught Timothy’s attention, and raised his bushy eyebrows meaningfully toward the dawdling guest. Satisfied that Timothy would see to Mr. Trillian, he took his leave.
“A stirring rendition of Lord Chattingbaron’s Great Grandfather at the hunt,” Timothy expounded as he approached Mr. Trillian. Within two steps of the guest, the bees resumed their buzzing. This time, the Footman’s hand was free and he brushed the air near his right ear.
Trillian caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to face the Footman. “Are you sure the self-diagnostic was correct?”