by Paul Anlee
The PM regarded Greg with icy detachment. “That will have to suffice for now. Arrange with the PMO to see me sometime next week. We’ll assess some of your specific proposals, and see if we can’t make it more comprehensible to us mere mortals. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some more nerves to calm.” She strode off across the lobby.
Greg took a deep breath. “I guess we’re on.”
31
Gerhardt walked the streets of twenty-first century virtual Manhattan with a strange feeling that he was being followed. It had been a typical day for him in his Alternus inworld instantiation as Chairman of the Fed. He spent the day jumping between meetings all over the city, grabbing coffee and lunch on the fly. After morning coffee, he dismissed his driver and security detail, and walked to his remaining appointments.
The feeling that someone was tracking his movements wouldn’t go away. He spotted the same particularly beefy man in a black leather jacket and sunglasses a few times before lunch. He calculated the odds of this same person randomly showing up repeatedly in his peripheral vision; it was astronomically improbable.
Gerhardt dedicated a high-priority subroutine to facial recognition scans of nearby crowds and went about his day. By the time he took a mid-afternoon break, the sub-routine had identified a total of five rugged-looking, similarly-attired men who kept appearing at the edge of his perception.
His program spotted them across a street or down an alley, in the reflection of a window, or in the mirror of a passing car. He wasn’t surprised he hadn’t consciously noticed them. They were good. But their unimaginative selection of casual behaviors made them as obvious to his subroutine as if they were all wearing red flashing lights on their heads.
Real New Yorkers were always rushing on their way to or from Somewhere Important. These men were clearly not real New Yorkers, not regular ones, in any case. Maybe they were tourists. Like the five suspicious men, tourists frequently stopped to browse. But tourists seldom looked so tough, and they didn’t spend as much time studiously selecting reading material at newsstands or pulling into recessed doorways. Not likely.
He set up a test. On the way to his last meeting of the day, he abruptly crossed the street, mid-block, as if he’d spotted an old friend, and started walking in the opposite direction. The man he suspected might be tracking him continued on the other side of the street. He spoke briefly into his cuff after he passed by. Within seconds a different tracker took over, one Gerhardt recognized from the restaurant where he had lunch.
He couldn’t imagine any reason someone would want to watch him so closely. Sure, in this sim, he was a banker but not just any banker, a Central Banker. It was his job to be boring, as boring as possible. His meetings today had taken him all over the city, to the Presidential suites of private banks and hedge funds, and to the New York Fed. They were all ordinary meetings, with nothing special on the agenda.
Despite the intimidating size of his trackers and the likelihood they were armed, he wasn’t afraid of them. Curious more. He could handle himself.
For this instantiation, Gerhardt had selected a tall and muscular body type, completely different from his normal, plump selves. Its Partial persona had worked hard to keep the body fit through running, weightlifting and, martial arts. It was a common archetype in the investment banking community, where the Partial had first cut his teeth on global finance. It was, however, an unusual choice in the Central Banking community.
The rest of his background story was equally unusual, including a steady move up the investment banking world before jumping into public service. When he finally returned to the private world, the Partial anticipated his reward from Wall Street would be enormous.
Almost immediately after visiting the Earth inworld, Gerhardt knew he had to be a Central Banker. He was a natural.
His talent was to perceive the invisible strings of finance that ran outward to every part of the globe and into all human activities. The Directors of the central banks tugged at those strings, in the same way they pushed and prodded the levers of power throughout the world. If Darya and her team had any hope of moving this sim toward a satisfactory conclusion, they needed the bankers.
The majority of Gerhardt’s previous inworld experiences revolved around the GameRoom, where any number of arcane and arbitrary rules could be assembled into as complex a game as one could imagine.
International banking in twenty-first century Earth didn’t feel much different to him than the GameRoom. The rules made no sense outside their own self-referential consistency. They had little or no relationship to the outwardly stated goals of the game: facilitate commerce and stabilize trade. Play was complex, yet subtle, and it took an incredible amount of skill and experience to master.
Gerhardt had good reasons not to fear his stalkers. First, his black belts in Aikido and Wu Shu meant he could take care of himself, even against larger armed assailants. Second, he had a concealed-carry permit for the Glock 9mm pistol in his shoulder holster. Third, the men who trailed him were not the important ones. Someone was giving them orders and would eventually show himself or herself. Then, the game would get interesting.
He found a nice café around 3:00 p.m., one with a chained-off patio on the broad sidewalk. It was a warm afternoon and, where it managed to peek through between the skyscrapers, the sun brightened the streets and sidewalks. He took a seat where he could easily observe the road and buildings opposite, loosened his tie, and ordered his favorite double cappuccino and slice of carrot cake.
While pretending to read his cell phone, he noted the positions the five trackers had casually taken. He waited for something to happen.
“Excuse me, you’re Gerhardt aren’t you?” He turned to see a lean, fifty-something man.
“Ah, there you are,” he replied happily. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The man looked confused. “I’m sorry?”
“Your people have been attempting to covertly follow me all day. I wondered when their boss would show up.”
A protest formed on the man’s lips, and quickly turned into a sly smile. “I should have known you’d spot them. May I sit?”
Gerhardt indicated the empty chair across the table. The man sat down and held out a hand. “John Trillian. My friends call me Jack,” he said.
Gerhardt looked at the hand a moment before deciding it would do no harm to shake it.
“Mr. Trillian,” he acknowledged. “Have we met each other outworld, then?”
“Sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure. But I’m friends with Leisha. I’m sorry, I mean Ms. Grishwold.”
“How do you know her?”
“We met inworld, through her work here.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket and removed a business card and handed it to Gerhardt.
“Trillian Banking System Security,” read Gerhardt. “Jack Trillian, Chief Technology Officer.” He regarded the man across the table. “Not CEO then?”
Trillian laughed. “No, I leave the mundane business to others. I enjoy the more technical work. It’s a much more interesting game.”
“You know, you could have called my secretary if you wanted to discuss business. It wasn’t necessary to stalk me.”
“That wasn’t exactly why I was having you followed,” admitted Trillian.
Gerhardt frowned—All this just to impress me and get some work? “Well, as it is, we have our own people for security purposes.”
“And you have every confidence in their capabilities?” Trillian smiled like he knew a secret.
“Of course,” Gerhardt waved away the question impatiently. “They’re the best in the world. So why exactly did you want to speak with me?”
“I’m curious. What is this all about?” he asked, and waved his arm expansively, indicating he was talking about the entire inworld sim.
Gerhardt sat up. Interesting question. He took a closer look at the man’s lean, well-trimmed physique, neat hair, and expensive casual clothing.
Unfazed, Trillian brushed away
a fly.
“You haven’t been to any of the meetings yet?” Gerhardt probed.
“Someone did try to press a flyer into my hand once,” Trillian replied, “an invitation of some sort. I ignored it. Anyway, they seemed to mainly talk about outworld happenings. I want to know what is the point of this sim.”
“It’s a challenging game,” suggested Gerhardt.
“Oh, I don’t believe this is a game for one second. Do you?”
“What else could it be?”
“I don’t quite know yet. It’s the first new inworld in some time. Someone went to a lot of trouble to create it; the physics are so real.”
He’s testing me. “Perhaps Alum thought it useful to train his People, Cybrids included, in something more realistic.” Gerhardt affected a bored expression. The man’s questions were probing a little too close to a truth he and Darya preferred to keep hidden for the moment.
“Somehow, I suspect this has little to do with Alum,” replied Trillian. “The brochure handed to me seemed…well…treasonous is the old word used to describe it. Although, I don’t think that word has carried any significant meaning in Alum’s Realm for quite some time.”
Gerhardt was getting a bad feeling about this encounter. “I don’t know why you imagine I would know any more about it than you do.” He tried to smile haplessly.
Trillian pursed his lips. “Well, let’s just say that you and a close circle of friends all seem to have taken the primary positions of power in this inworld.”
Gerhardt definitely didn’t like where this was going. “Pure coincidence, I’m sure, if it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true enough. And you seem to be pushing a particular political agenda.”
“And what might that be?”
“Space exploration and colonization.”
Gerhardt scoffed, “The Realm has been in space for over a hundred million years. I hardly think that should threaten Alum.”
“Are you interested in threatening Alum?”
Gerhardt stood up. “I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.” He threw a crumpled twenty dollar bill on the table. “Please feel free to enjoy one of their fine desserts on me.”
He noticed the air had gotten chillier in the past few minutes. “I trust you got what you wanted and won’t feel the need to follow me anymore,” he said. He gave Trillian a cold glare. “Enjoy your stay on Alternus, Mr. Trillian.” He turned to leave.
The door into the café was blocked by two of the trackers. They must have moved in while he was distracted by Trillian’s questioning. Gerhardt turned back to demand the man leave him alone.
Trillian leaned back in his chair, smiling pleasantly, one arm casually draped over the back of the chair. The other hand held a pistol, aimed at the center of Gerhardt’s chest.
“Why don’t you sit back down?” he asked. The tone was friendly, but the gleam in his eyes was anything but. “And tell me all about what you, Mary, and Darya are cooking up.”
Gerhardt went cold. How does he know about Mary and Darya?—he wondered. “You must realize that even if you kill this body, I’ll merely de-instantiate and return inworld in a different body. My next instantiation is certain to be promoted to this same position.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident of that.” Trillian’s smile broadened. “Now, sit down.” He waved the gun barrel toward the empty seat.
Gerhardt’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed heavily. He closed his eyes and counted to three. He opened his eyes and staggered back to the table. He put his hand on the back of the chair, seemingly to support himself. He began to sit down but stopped halfway in a crouch. His left foot snapped out, sending the gun flying from Trillian’s hand.
The two men at the door rushed forward, and Gerhardt spun around to face them. The heavyset fellow in front swung a roundhouse punch. Gerhardt leaned right, letting the man’s fist pass in front of his face, and brought his hand up, inside, and across, deflecting the man’s arm outward. He latched onto the passing wrist and pressed firmly against the other’s elbow, locking the arm tight. With the arm as leverage, he whipped the brute backwards into his unsuspecting partner, sending him tumbling over a chair.
Still holding onto the man’s wrist, Gerhardt reeled the man completely around and into the now standing Trillian. The two crashed in a heap, taking tables, chairs, and dishes with them.
A server yelled into the back, “Call the cops!”
Gerhardt turned back toward the second attacker, who’d recovered and was resuming his charge. He faked a punch at the man’s face, just enough to make him pause, then swiveled and launched a spinning kick that connected squarely with the other’s head, dropping him to the ground, unconscious.
This suit is not cut for this kind of fighting. Gerhardt loosened his tie, unbuttoned his tailored jacket, and took out his Glock.
“Now, Mr. Trillian,” he began. “I believe we might have that little chat, after all.” He waited for the man’s eyes to lose their intensity. Normally, Gerhardt would read that as a sure sign the persona had fled its instantiation, leaving only the original Partial behind.
Trillian returned Gerhardt’s stare with an eerie concentration and smiled.
Too late, Gerhardt realized one of the thugs had slipped his observation and was taking aim. As he dove for cover, two shots ripped through his torso, puncturing his heart and aorta. He landed hard on the patio, losing whatever breath remained in his lungs.
What a senseless waste—Gerhardt thought as he initiated the disconnection sequence, unplugging his persona from the dying sim body. He felt his awareness pour down the long conduit toward his Cybrid body, which was safely docked at an anonymous recharging station.
He was already thinking about how soon he could get back to the Alternus inworld, and how to best reintegrate into the project.
Who is this Trillian character, and what’s he doing here in this game?
He would have to discuss upgrading security measures with Darya and perhaps query the Supervisor for background info on the guy.
This isn’t an adventure game. What’s he trying to gain by killing off my Character and making me lose a few hours inworld while I reinstantiate?
Without warning, his persona slammed into a barrier.
What the…?—the way back to his true Cybrid self had been blocked. Shortly after the Lysrandia fiasco, Darya had given the inner circle a software update to ensure their consciousness would never again be caught without an escape route back to their trueselves. Yet he was unable to leave the sim. How could that have happened?
He reversed course and headed back inworld, to find another Partial to inhabit. It wouldn’t really matter which one; he’d find Darya and explain what happened. Together, they’d sort it out.
Gerhardt set up the parameters to search for a new body.
The Supervisor directed him back to the bullet-riddled, soon to be dead body of the Chairman of the Fed.
What? No, I can’t do that. Start again.
He retreated once again toward his trueself, but his channel was deteriorating rapidly.
The virtual conduit grew narrower and narrower, constricting his ability to move. He zoomed back and forth between inworld and outworld terminals. Each time, he spread himself thinner. Soon, his concepta and persona inhabited the entire length of the slender conduit leading to his trueself in the real universe. As it contracted, the only thing he could do was shrink himself to fit.
He started by throwing away memories of games and then of people. He discarded a good portion of his life. I can reconstruct that later.
The pipe kept shrinking, forcing him to discard more and more of himself in order to survive. Before long he was down to the essentials, his most basic memories, knowledge, beliefs, and preferences. Everything that made him a unique individual was being squeezed from his existence.
No! I can’t! I’ll die! He made one last desperate attempt to push past the block, back to his trueself, but there was no escape. His only chan
ce was to go back into the Alternus body and experience its death. Perhaps, at the end, he could figure out somewhere for his essential concepta to go. Maybe to the mythical Heaven that so many humans of the twenty-first century believed in. Wouldn’t that be hilarious, a modern-day heathen like me getting into Heaven!
With no other option, he returned to his dying virtual body inside the sim.
His simulated heart stopped beating, and his brain halted electrical activity.
In creating the inworld Earth, Darya had wanted everything to be as realistic as possible. She’d left no particular instructions regarding the death of entrapped personas.
There was a brief pause as the inworld Supervisor contemplated what to do next.
Alternus was supposed to be realistic, and real humans died. Partials died in Alternus all the time, at quite an alarming rate as far as the Supervisor was concerned. What else could one expect, given the number of small wars, insurrections, acts of terror, or violent crimes going on at any time?
The Supervisor could return the body of the Chairman back to simulated life, or set aside some temporary storage space for Gerhardt’s concepta and persona. But both options seemed contrary to the whole point of a realistic simulation. The Alternus inworld Supervisor made its decision.
In the temporary bliss of a dead body with an inactive brain, Gerhardt waited for something to happen. There was no sensation, no pain, no worry, no real thought. There was the hum of existence, a persona processing clock slowly ticking over on the quark-spin lattice substrate that housed the Earth inworld.
The Supervisor released the bits of memory that housed Gerhardt into recirculation. Like so many billions of humans before him had discovered, there was nothing after death. Gerhardt’s persona simply dissipated into the mythical computational ether.
32
Greg sat at the head of the bed in a loose half-lotus position, preparing to lose his mind.
Kathy was away. Whether “still” or “again” was hard to say. Since the G26 had approved the Vesta Project in Vancouver a few months ago, the two of them hardly got to see each other any more.