Matrix Man

by William C. Dietz

  Numalo threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, Carla, how I miss your spirit! All I ever hear around here is 'yes sir,' and 'no sir.' It is nice to converse with an equal for once."

  Carla felt an inner warmth at the compliment, and it was quite literally true, because like him she controlled an entire nation.

  Numalo saw it and prepared himself to push the next button. First, however, it would be necessary to lay some groundwork. "How are things going?"

  Carla tried to concentrate, but found her eyes drifting down toward the two women. She forced them back up. "Things are going well. Although the press continues to grumble about cancellation of the president's public appearances, they have access to him through video, and that keeps most of them quiet."

  "What about wide shots?"

  Carla nodded in understanding. "We're using the actor to give them plenty of wide shots. 'Here's the president getting out of his helicopter, here's the president getting into his limo, here's the president heading out toward the tennis court.' All taken from a distance and all quite believable."

  One of the women did something special, and Numalo winced with pleasure. "Yes, and given the plastic surgery, they couldn't tell the difference anyway."

  Carla shrugged. "Probably not, although the actor's voice is considerably different, and he barely has enough intelligence to walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time."

  Numalo laughed. "Actually, that could describe any number of the world's leaders right now."

  "Yes," Carla agreed sincerely. "All but one."

  Numalo nodded in response to the compliment. "Thank you, Carla. When I hear compliments, yours are among the few I believe."

  Numalo paused for a moment, knowing she wouldn't like what he was about to say, searching for the best way to phrase it. "In spite of your success, things are not moving as quickly as I would like."

  Carla's head jerked up. She didn't like the sound of this. From the beginning both had agreed that use of the video matrix generator would serve as a catalyst, a way of getting things moving, but wouldn't hold up for long.

  There was Hawkins' wife, for one thing. She'd be out of die hospital in a day or two, and all hell would break loose. The actor was fine for wide shots, but Mary would see through him in two seconds.

  And then there was die Cabinet and members of the White House staff. Thanks to the Information Age and all the electronic goodies which went with it, the Cabinet and staff could live wherever they chose. In fact, Carla Subido and Stan Lester were the only ones who actually worked in the White House. The rest of the staff were spread out all over the country. They usually met once a week via scrambled video conference and handled everything else by phone, data transfer, and high-speed fax.

  And, thanks to the video matrix generator, that tradition had continued after the president's death. It wasn't easy, but so far she and Stan had managed to fake them out.

  And what about the vice-president? One of these days she'd get tired of the junkets she loved so much and come home. What then?

  Carla searched Numalo's face for some sign that he was joking. "This isn't funny, Samuel. We can't keep this up."

  Numalo gave the black woman a pat of encouragement and left his hand on her shoulder. "I know it's inconvenient, Carla, but some of my peers are dragging their feet. Most are just jockeying for position, making sure of their positions in the new order of things, but a few have genuine doubts. They must be bought off or eliminated. Either way it takes time."

  "Well, that's just ducky, Samuel, but meanwhile I'm sitting on a time bomb, and Mary Hawkins is due home any day now."

  The black woman established a steady rhythm, and Numalo's eyelids fluttered in spite of his efforts to keep a straight face. He smiled sympathetically. "Believe me, Carla, I'm aware of the difficulties. I just need a little more time, that's all, time you can buy me, time to make our plans come true."

  There, he'd pushed the button with the first person plural. Now to watch the results.

  Carla heard him say "our" and felt a familiar warmth spread through her body. She did her best to look stern and failed. "But what about Mary?"

  As each breath came a little faster, Numalo found himself wanting the interview to end. He must be careful, however, careful of her ego, careful of the future. What if she went to his superiors? What if she told them what he was doing? Numalo looked deep into Carla's eyes and projected his personality there. "Don't worry, Carla. Mary Hawkins won't come home. She'll pass away of natural causes before she leaves the hospital. A sudden and unexpected heart attack. And then, overcome with grief, the president will head for Camp David. Everyone will understand and we'll put the time to good use.”

  Carla considered what he'd said. It made sense. Once again she marveled at the man's power. His ability to reach across the world and snuff out a life, but with an entire continent at his beck and call, why not? Soon it would be two continents, three, the entire world. Eventually he'd take the WPO itself, tear it from the greedy grasp of those who ran it now, and reshape it into something fine. And she would stand beside him. Carla stood.

  "I'd better get back. I've got a country to run. And on top of that, it isn't easy to keep the rest of the staff happy when they don't have access to the president."

  Numalo nodded. "I'm sure it is. Any other problems?"

  Carla shook her head.

  Numalo smiled. Having received a report from Dietrich only hours before, he knew about Rex Corvan and understood Carla's reluctance to mention him. The reop was nothing more than an annoyance so far, but given the potentially explosive nature of the situation, he could cause trouble. It was tempting to cancel Dietrich's ticket and put somebody more effective on the job. But if he did that, who would keep an eye on Carla?

  Besides, Dietrich was an effective tool, a soldier who liked to kill. A talent he came by honestly through his Germanic blood, just as Numalo had, although his was enriched by a thousand generations of Zulu warriors. A powerful mixture indeed, Numalo thought to himself. What they say is true. I am a god.

  Suddenly Numalo found himself on the very edge of orgasm, and bit his lip to push it back, using the pain to clear his head. For the moment Dietrich would live and Carla would carry on.

  "All right then, take care of yourself, Carla, and get some rest."

  Carla smiled in return, carefully ignored the black woman's bobbing head, and touched the door. It slid open and she stepped outside. It was then, just before the door slid closed, that she heard Numalo cry out and wished that he were dead.

  7

  After completing his stand-up close, Corvan returned to his hotel. He had every intention of picking up exactly where he'd left off. Twelve hours of sleep followed by a huge breakfast and a day of rest. That's what he needed to put the edge back on.

  But when Corvan arrived at his hotel there was a message waiting. All it said was "Please see me as soon as possible," signed "Kim," but that was enough. His desire to see her plus his curiosity made a powerful combination. So, after a shave and a change of clothes, Corvan packed up and checked out. The shoulder guard and robo cam made his bag somewhat heavy, but he was used to that. If he couldn't sleep in Seattle, maybe he'd do better in his San Francisco apartment.

  Duffel bag in hand, Corvan stepped out onto the hotel's roof and headed for the nearest air cab. There was nothing special about the mousy-looking woman who followed him, and she was careful to keep it that way. About forty-five or fifty, she was dressed in a nondescript manner and looked like someone's mother, which she was.

  Corvan climbed aboard the air cab and slept all the way to the Nakasaki Business Complex, completely oblivious to the pilot's curious looks and the second air taxi which followed along behind.

  After what seemed like five or ten seconds, the chopper landed one skid at a time and the pilot shook him awake.

  Corvan shoved his credit card in the pilot's direction, stretched, and took it back with a mumbled thanks. Grabbing his duffel bag, Corvan made his way into th
e building, waved in the direction of the reception desk, and headed for the elevators.

  Louie called down to warn Kim of Corvan's arrival, but it was unnecessary. She was ready and had been for hours. Here she had news, really big news, and he was out screwing around. Yes, she knew he'd been on a story; after all, she'd seen the report along with millions of other people. But that didn't change the fact that he'd left her holding the bag, a rather nasty bag too, once you got it open and took a look inside. There was something else too, something she wouldn't completely admit to. She wanted to see him again.

  There was a knock on the door. Kim checked to make sure she had her I-don't-need-any one expression firmly in place, and yelled, "Come on in!"

  Corvan opened the door and stepped inside. It was cool and dark just like before. Kim stood in the soft glow of a recessed light. Shadows modeled her face as she looked down at some sort of printout. She was just as pretty as he remembered, maybe even more so. It seemed as though her hair was different, shorter maybe, and there was something about her eyes. Makeup? Whatever it was, he liked it. "Hello, Kim, I got your message. What's up?"

  In spite of the cheerful greeting Kim could see Corvan was tired. Not only that, but he had deep scratches on his face where the man called El Toro had clawed him, and he walked with a slight limp.

  Suddenly it all seemed real: the terrible fight, his victory over the convict. Her carefully hoarded anger melted away, leaving her all soft and mushy. Damn the man! Suddenly she was grinning like an idiot. She spoke quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice. "I saw the story. What they say is true. You really are crazy."

  "Stupid, is more like it," Corvan replied wryly. "Had I known what it was like in mere, I would’ve stayed in bed. Is the story getting good play? I'd like to see Warden Waller spend some time in her own lockup.”

  "Good play?" Kim asked. "Are you kidding? The preliminary ratings are off the charts, and as for Waller, well, I'd say her days are numbered. The governor just announced an investigation."

  "Good," Corvan said. "I got your message. What's up?"

  "You remember the little puzzle you left with me?"

  Corvan nodded. "Sure, Neely's disk."

  "Well, I’ve been working on it, and guess what? There's something on it after all. A lot of something. I thought you should take a look."

  A grin exploded across Corvan's face. He grabbed Kim and kissed her on the cheek. "All right! The ace editor strikes again! How did you do it?"

  Kim responded with a frown of disapproval but felt pleased nonetheless. She shrugged modestly. "It was a combination of perseverance and dumb luck. I noticed that though the video was scrambled, it was scrambled in a uniform way, and that suggested some sort of encryption. I ran it through every modulator/ demodulator the studio has. Still nothing. So I modified the gear and kept modifying it until it worked."

  Corvan shook his head in amazement. "You're just as stubborn as Frank was. So give, what's on the tape?"

  "Hold on for a moment and you can see for yourself."

  As Kim sat down and reached for a wire, she found herself pointing up at the second cord and asking an unexpected question: "Would you care to wire up?"

  Corvan looked at her for a moment, sensed it was special, and nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'd enjoy that."

  Kim felt suddenly jubilant. He knew! He understood! She slipped the jack into the side of her head and felt the cool darkness rise to surround her.

  The equipment began to talk, murmuring its soft litany of readiness, but Kim's attention lay elsewhere. This wasn't her first time. She been dual wired before. First with her instructors, later with a few peers, and finally with some insistent clients.

  But not willingly and not for a very long time. She'd done it because she had to, because the job demanded it, because they'd hurt her if she didn't.

  And later she'd spent hours in the shower, scrubbing her skin until it bled, trying to rid herself of the invisible dirt. But no matter how hot the water was, or how much soap she applied, a part of them remained. A stain on her soul.

  But this was different. This time it was her desire, her interface, and her decision. Theoretically it could be good.

  When people were linked by the interface, thoughts could flash back and forth at incredible speed, emotions could be shared rather than described, and relationships could be built or destroyed in seconds. What would Corvan be like?

  On one level it was idle curiosity, on another it was something more, a need to peek under the surface. The only problem was that in order to get a little, you had to give a little, and Corvan would end up knowing just as much as she did.

  The reop took the seat next to her, pulled the second cord down, and jacked it in. Suddenly he was there, flooding in around her, unsure at first but quickly settling in.

  She felt his thoughts turn her way. He was a warm wave of otherness seeking to merge with her, to join with her, to become part of her.

  Kim felt herself react, heard herself say, "No," and sensed him back away. She heard him say, "Sorry about that," and knew that she was sorry too, sorry that she'd pulled away, afraid to invite him in. Kim tried to put it into words but found she didn't have to. She thought-heard his voice sweep in around her.

  "It's all right, Kim, I understand. I had no right to come on so strong. No hard feelings?"

  Kim radiated gratitude. "No hard feelings."

  "Good," he responded gently. "But it might happen again."

  Kim's smile sent little ripples of emotion through the interface. "Then I'll just have to take my chances, won't I?"

  Corvan heard-felt her response and felt good inside. She liked him! "I guess you will. In the meantime, I promise to be good while we look at Frank's tape."

  "I'm relieved to hear it," Kim replied dryly, the words drifting across the interface with just a touch of amusement. "Now be quiet while I set things up."

  Corvan let himself go, floating in the darkness like a swimmer on his back, dimly aware of conversation between Kim and a computer named Val but too tired to care what they said. He was almost asleep when a thought from Kim jerked him back.

  "You can sleep later. Take a look at this."

  Blackness became light. Light became color. Color became Frank Neely. Corvan found himself nowhere and everywhere all at once. Frank looked him straight in the eye. He looked better now, healthier, his face full of color and his beard trimmed. But there was an aura of tension around him which showed in his eyes and the nervous movements of his hands. Neely cleared his throat.

  "It feels silly talking this way, not knowing if someone will hear my words or believe what I'm going to say. But I do have something to say, something important, and I hope it's not too late. The truth is that I’ve created a monster, or more accurately we've created a monster, since I can hardly take credit for all the scientific discoveries which made it possible.

  "Looking back, I see it was inevitable. First there was television, then there was computer-aided television, and then there was computer-generated television.

  "It was no big deal at first—some computer-generated graphics and some rather clumsy attempts to simulate real video.

  "But now, God help us, there's something more, computer-generated reality, for I know of no better way to describe this new development. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Best to take a moment and show you what I'm talking about."

  Neely dissolved into a million points of colored light, and the picture reassembled itself into a television studio. Unlike most television studios, which tend to be empty when not in use, this one was full of metal scaffolding. It was painted blue, a color sometimes used in connection with special effects, and looked like a plumber's nightmare. Corvan saw that dozens Of cameras and lights had been attached to the scaffolding and were aimed downward toward a small section of studio floor.

  "Not an especially attractive sight," Neely observed from off-camera, "but results are what counts. What you can't see is the super-computer which ties all the cameras t
ogether and makes this more than an elaborate jungle gym. For lack of a better name I call the whole thing a 'video matrix generator.'

  "What does it do, you ask? Ah, you weren't listening when I told you earlier. It makes reality."

  At this point Neely strolled into the shot and stood in the middle of the scaffolding. The camera flew in and around the metal pipes with such freedom that Corvan assumed it was a robo cam or something quite similar. The camera coasted to a stop and zoomed in tight as Neely began to speak.

  "The video matrix generator, or VMG for short, can create reality in two different ways. The first involves the Use of existing video. This approach can be somewhat limited if there's only a small amount of video available, or quite effective when a good deal of material exists. Let's take this man, for example."

  The video swirled and coalesced into a freeze-frame of a famous actor. He had at least three successful television series to his credit, no less than twenty-three movies, and had served a term in Congress before retiring to the south of Spain.

  The freeze-frame went into motion and was followed by a montage of television, movie, and news footage of the same man. Neely resumed his narration.

  "This man has been recorded doing thousands, maybe millions of different things. There's video of him talking, laughing, and yes, God help us, even singing.

  "By taking those images and sounds and digitizing them, we can create an extensive data bank. Now, let's suppose that this actor is dead, and we want to make an entirely new movie with him as the star. We contact his heirs, purchase the right to use his likeness, and hire a scriptwriter. A few months later we have it, a good detective story, one which will overload the com-net as our star's fans scramble to rent a feed.

  "Now," Neely said, reappearing in the studio, "we feed the script into the computer, program it to search for matching video, and go get coffee. After a while, a day at most, the computer delivers a rough cut of the final picture. It's only a partial, mind you, full of holes and missing pieces, but it's pretty damned close.