The Virtual Dead

by E. R. Mason

Chapter 17

 

  The black, Sensesuited figure of Scott Markman stood motionless and blind in the corner of the abandoned room. Fearfully, he realized that the outside world was now unavailable in anything other than dimension, no sounds, no sights, no feeling, no smell. Within the desensitized blackness, he waited for artificial light or fiery death.

  A faint glow of orange began to form a sliver of horizon across the darkness. Then an orange arc cut slowly into the plane of new light. It became a crescent of sun, larger than Earth's, and it rose with increasing speed above an alien skyline. The silhouette of an exotic city began to embellish an aqua sky. It was a city of endlessness, possessing every direction and distance with forms that were not easily understood. Markman viewed it as one would from a mountain top, and the depth and detail were breathtaking.

  As the sun rose full in the sky, the colors came. Luminous shapes of pyramids, ovals, triangles and hexagons. Structures that seemed formed by glass or colored light, densely packed and mammoth in size. It was an animated city. Glowing spheres of green and yellow light passed over it; some drifting, others racing by. Within the jeweled ground plane, tiny beads of light flowed through crystal clear tubes that ran in and out of the city's complexes. Faint sounds of rushing air came and went, and there was a subtle smell of jasmine.

  Markman looked down and was startled by the realism of the two hundred foot drop below the narrow ledge on which he was standing. A tangled area of clear tubes and semitransparent structures lay far below. Though he knew he was alone in an empty room, his mind struggled not to believe the information being supplied to the eyes and brain. In compromise, he took a short step back. He could see his own feet and legs; computer representations garbed in smooth black fabric and high black boots that lacked the slightest imperfection. The ledge was dark granite; a shelf jutting out from the apex of a giant golden pyramid. Its smooth walls led down to the collage of colors on the artificial ground below.

  He looked at his hands and arms, tight, black gloves like a sports car enthusiast might wear. Tight, perfect black sleeves covered computer-generated arms. These things moved with him just as perfectly as their real counterparts. There was no difference.

  As he stared back out over the city, a second orange sun rose in the sky slightly behind and to the left of the first. Suddenly a row of eight boxes, each containing a zero, appeared as though suspended in air in front of him. They were just within arm's reach and immediately reminded him of the strip of paper Baker had so unexpectedly provided. He summoned from memory the eight numbers he had seen. The third, fifth, and eight digits needed to be ones. He reached out his computer hand and touched the third window. Instantly, it changed to a one. He moved to the fifth and eight positions and they too changed. The numbered windows disappeared.

  Postage-stamp-sized, intricately designed icons began to emerge in the left side of his field of vision. One by one they drew a line straight up to forehead height, then across and back down on the other side. A total of twelve icons surrounded the view of the luminous city. They seemed to hang in the air a foot or so from his face. At the bottom of his view, a flashing green bar appeared with the word "engage" imprinted within it. The gold and silver icon on Markman's bottom left became more brightly lit than the others and began flashing in time with it.

  Markman found himself wishing more than ever for Cassiopia. Even the TEL robot would do. For all of the exotic talents and abilities he had mastered in his unorthodox life, computers had not been one of them.

  Selections, he thought. These must be choices of some kind. With reluctance, he gambled and touched the center overhead icon. It was black and full of tiny, silver dots.

  Abruptly the golden pyramid and the luminous city were gone. In their place, an inky-black sky heavily-splayed with stars filled his vision. A deep, low rumble back dropped the quiet, and there was a subtle vibration beneath his feet. He turned and looked behind him. Dozens of colored instrument panels filled a moderate-size, softly lit, semicircular room. A large, black, cushioned chair with a high headrest was fastened to the floor in the center of it. Three men, dressed in black and red, one-piece uniforms stood around him, staring at him as though waiting for instructions. The closest of them stepped forward and spoke with cautious respect.

  "Your orders, Captain?"

  Markman ignored the question. It was clear now that the icons did represent different situational choices. He needed one more familiar to him, one that he would have an advantage in. Unfortunately, he had no idea what each icon symbolized.

  The icon cluster was still displayed. The last of them, the one on the bottom right, was a clear square with an arrow in it, different from the others. Not knowing what else to do, he tried it. The scenario remained the same, but a completely new set of icons appeared. Apparently, the choices were unlimited.

  He looked at the uniformed men waiting for him. His only option was to keep selecting icons until an appropriate one was found. He turned back and looked out the large viewing screen at the stars. He hesitated too long.

  The flashing green engage bar suddenly disappeared, replaced by a printed message.

  Select time expired.

  Previous selections completed = 0

  Default select to 1

  An instant later he was back on the ledge of the pyramid, looking out over a city he did not understand. The icons were gone, the imagery complete. A low, musical-sounding voice spoke from behind.

  "Mr. Baker, sir, will you be traveling by tube rider or transport?"

  Markman turned on the narrow ledge to find himself in front of a star-shaped door looking inside the pyramid. Golden light from within back lighted the cloaked individual who had addressed him. The man appeared to be human, though his eyes were pearl and his hair silver and long. He wore a robe with large cuffed sleeves that concealed his hands. His skin was a soft white and immaculate.

  Behind him, crystal formations jutted from an arc-shaped platform attached to the floor. Near it, a large clear tube, big enough to hold two people, rose out of the floor and ended in the domed ceiling. There was a door-like cut in one side of it. The base color of the pyramid's interior was gold but was gradually changing, fading through the colors of the spectrum. To Markman's right a large panel of silver light seem to section off an elevator-like booth.

  Markman turned his attention to the strange man who had spoken. "What did you say?"

  "Sir, will you be traveling by tube rider or transporter?"

  "Who are you?"

  "Sir, I am known as Trill. I have been assigned as your protégé."

  "Are you real?"

  "Sir, I am an artificial reconstruction of an actual personality. To me, however, I am quite real."

  "What is this place?"

  "Sir, you have selected the Aurora City. A very beautiful and dangerous place."

  Markman turned and looked back out over the strange land. Though two suns shone brightly in the aqua sky, the city lights were as brilliant as though it were evening. This was no illusion like that of the Virtual Death game. This was real enough to fool the senses completely. Smell, sight, and sound were being controlled to perfection, so much so that it was difficult to keep in mind the empty factory that lay just outside. Markman turned back to face his host and walked down the gentle ramp that led inside.

  "What am I supposed to do here?"

  "Sir, you must locate and open the Crillian Coffer of Dreams. It will provide the answers to every question you have ever had, or so it is said."

  "And where do I find it?"

  "Sir, I cannot say. I can only provide you with the optimum starting point. From there it is said the way is clear, though few players survive it."

  "But you will be along to guide me, I take it."

  "Oh, the stars forbid, no sir! Though I am artificial, I possess a strong will to survive. I have done so for over two thousand Crillian years, I might add. You may, however, take a page if you wish to invest the credits. They are a trifl
e expensive."

  "Wait just a minute. Crillian years? What is Crillian?"

  "Sir, Crillian. That which is of, or from, the planet Crillia."

  "Oh, I get it. And you are also supposed to be Crillian. It's part of the game, right?"

  "Sir, that is correct."

  "And since you said you are based on an actual person, I'm supposed to believe there really is a planet Crillia somewhere, right?"

  "Sir, there is indeed such a place."

  "Okay, fine, sure, no problem. Okay, what about the credits. I have credits?"

  "Sir, one million to start. You may increase that, or become deficit, if you fare poorly. A page will cost you fifty thousand, though he may die in your place, making the expense more than justified."

  "And this page is an artificial person also, right?"

  "Sir, that is correct, Everyone here is a reconstructed personality based on real individuals except in the case of the other players, of course."

  "Other players? There are other players in this place. How can that be? How many?"

  "Sir, when the main gate is open, any number of players may access this program from almost any location."

  "Any number of them? Are they friend or enemy?"

  "Sir, players are generally not aggressive toward one another, although there are exceptions particularly when close to the objective. You must always keep in mind that to harm another player is to do real harm. All can be easily recognized by the blue triangle on their chests."

  Markman looked down at his own black computer image and found the blue triangle located over his heart. He raised the image of his hand and touched it. It changed to red with the touch, and then back to blue when released.

  "Sir, I must warn you, the triangle is your abort. When confronted by insurmountable circumstances, you may elect to abort. A simple touch to the triangle initiates the abort sequence. You will have a sixty-forty chance at survival. If you are lucky, you will be transported safely back to this location. Your session will be over. You may resume it at the next opening of the main gate."

  "And if I am not lucky?"

  "Sir, you will be destroyed. I recommend you use the abort only as a last resort. My last charge was lost to an unsuccessful abort."

  Markman reflected for a moment on the advice of a man who did not exist, yet it seemed advice well-taken.

  "What can you tell me about the suit? What are its limitations?"

  "Sir, what suit are you referring to?"

  "The one I'm wearing now."

  "Sir, it appears quite appropriate to me."

  "No, I mean the outer suit. The one that is making me see you and this place?"

  "Sir, I have no knowledge of such a suit."

  Markman understood. There would be no compromise of the Sensesuit by its own systems. It had been risky and unwise just asking.

  "Okay, what dangers do I face in getting to this coffer thing?"

  "Sir, they are too numerous to list. You must analyze and adapt to them as they occur. That is part of the game."

  "How long will I have?"

  "Sir, the main gate remains open for an indeterminate length of time varying from two to six Terran hours. When time has elapsed, you will be automatically transported back to this location for suit disengagement. You may resume your journey from the point you departed at the next opening of the main gate."

  "Suit disengagement? I thought you didn't know anything about the suit?"

  "Sir, to what suit are you referring?"

  "Okay, okay, two to six Terran hours. What are Terran hours?"

  "Sir, it is the time base by which you are accustomed to keeping time."

  "So you're saying that nothing I come across in here is real except the other players. Is that correct?"

  "Sir, that is an unhealthy perspective. In Crillia it is said that the only things truly dependable are death and dues. By that definition, Aurora City is as real as any. You would do well to treat it as such."

  Markman considered the analogy. Perhaps the dangers of this sensually-fabricated place did allow it the essence of true substance. After all, some who came here never left. Markman returned his attention to his very polite emissary. "Alright, well I'm ready. Let's get on with this. You'd better get me the page, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do."

  Before Markman had finished speaking, a second figure materialized beside Trill. He was a short, youthful character, dressed in a brown pullover shirt and matching pants that looked like leather except for their flawless design. His face was set with deep but simple features, and his short, black hair was trimmed evenly around his head. His skin was amber, his eyes pearl and the brown leather strap of a well-stuffed satchel was slung over his shoulder.

  "Sir, this is Illy. He will act as your page. He carries an assortment of tools. You will need weapons also, but you must win them yourself."

  Markman shook his head and felt lost in absurdity. It was as though he were trapped inside a game computer. A sting of panic went through him as he realized he could not even attempt to remove the Sensesuit. To do so would surely bring severe consequence. The bizarre engagement would have to be played out. He had no choice but to adapt to it. He reached up a hand to rub his face and felt it bump the outside of the helmet. At the same time, an artificial pressure pressed against his face. The complex world inside the Sensesuit was more real than not.

  "How do I get to the starting point?"

  "Sir, there are two ways to travel. You may use matter transfer, or you may take a tube rider. Most players use the transfer unit. The tube riders are more often employed for sightseeing or transporting guarded materials. Occasionally a player will defer to a tube rider if he expects an ambush at the materialization site."

  "Fine. We'll transport then. Let's get on with it."

  "Very well, sir. Please step into the transporter column.” Trill parted his arms and gestured toward the clear, hollow tube at the center of the room. Frowning, Markman went to it and stepped inside. The attentive page made no attempt to follow.

  "Isn't he coming?"

  "Sir, he will be at the starting point when you arrive. The transfer procedure is intended only as a safeguard against inadvertently transporting you before you are ready. Shall I engage, sir?" Trill moved over to the arched control panel.

  "Why not," replied Markman sarcastically.

  "Sir, I know of no reason."

  "Just do it, please, I'm ready."

  "As you wish, sir." Trill waved a sleeve over a crystal control, and for Markman, the artificial world within turned into a soft, white, uncertainty.

 

  Chapter 18