The Reality Thief (Deplosion Book 1)

by Paul Anlee

  Many hopefuls had tried to work their way into some kind of relationship with The Family; only a small percentage succeeded. The immediate Family of 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 as Lords.

  Mr. Trillian’s interest in Casa DonTon, however, had nothing to do with the Family or its eligible guests or connections.

  Shard Trillian was on a mission. If he was going to successfully infiltrate the Alternus inworld, he couldn’t do it by the normal, direct route. He knew that now.

  This frivolous hub, Casa DonTon, would provide the ideal place, an unexpected alternative route, from which to launch the incursion.

  The Living God approved his choice, and the Shard immediately instantiated inworld as Mr. Trillian, purposely setting aside his lofty title as one of Alum’s most trusted agents.

  Trillian’s earlier attempts to enter the unsanctioned inworld of Alternus by the more direct routes hadn’t worked out well. It didn’t take much snooping around to discover the passcode phrase, “There’s no place like home,” but he’d been over-confidant and careless, and dismissed Alum’s warning about the subtle thought-virus activated at Alternus’ regular portal. To his surprise and chagrin, Trillian found his personal defenses nearly overwhelmed by the thing.

  Outwardly, the virus appeared relatively innocuous, but it was as dangerous as it was subtle. Its touch was as delicate as Alum had intimated. It did no more than instill a willingness to consider criticisms of the Lord in minds that would have otherwise viewed such ideas as the highest blasphemy. Compounding this dangerous openness to suggestion was a tendency toward distrust of Alum’s rank as the universe’s Ultimate Authority.

  Trillian evaded its tenacious tendrils mostly by luck. A hunch had led him to isolate his inworld interface from deeper mental structures before attempting contact with Alternus, protecting his core persona from the virus’ first attack.

  Even at that, the insidious virus broke through his firewall before he could program his belief matrix—his concepta—to ignore it.

  The ego-checking close call and narrowly avoided catastrophe convinced him to drop any idea of a simple frontal assault in favor of a more secretive infiltration. Enter, Casa DonTon.

  It made perfect sense. First, DonTon’s data paths were routed close to the virus-infected hardware substrate on which the Alternus simulation ran, but were not affected by it. Second, DonTon’s instantiated population was small, and its participants were shallow and silly enough that he wouldn’t be overly taxed by the sim itself. He’d have ample opportunity to probe Alternus’ supervisory defenses while keeping up the pretense of social niceties. Third, it seemed unlikely that whoever or whatever designed the Alternus inworld would expect an invasion from such a non-threatening neighbor as the frivolous Casa DonTon.

  With his attention brought back to the room by the sound of clattering peach bowls, Trillian realized his gentle lattice probing at the edges of the Alternus sim portal—located behind the closet door on the facing wall—had been having an unexpected effect on the wait staff Partial, Timothy.

  While Timothy put his concepta through diagnostic testing, Trillian reviewed what he knew about the knowledge-belief space of Partials for any clue as to how his actions might have disrupted the Footman.

  * * *

  TIMOTHY’S SELF-DIAGNOSTIC FINISHED, and the Supervisor program discreetly pinged the waiting Partial: Unregistered Instantiation. Reporting anomaly now. Please wait.

  That doesn’t sound very promising–thought the Footman. He straightened his posture and addressed Lady Chattingbaron. “Troubles appear to have originated in the hardware matrix as a result of anomalous solar wind activity, my Lady,” he lied. “Everything is fine now.” He calmly resumed serving dessert.

  Unregistered Instantiation? Timothy’s mind reeled though he maintained his calm external demeanor. A mind extant in the DonTon inworld without an associated physical trueself registered outworld? A full persona with no real body? Timothy knew that Partials were not supposed to become fully instantiated with independent personas unless they had been selected by the committee as candidates for embodiment outside.

  How such knowledge appeared in his mind, he had no idea. It seemed as if the information spontaneously emerged in his consciousness of its own accord only seconds before. How odd. He looked around nervously.

  His mind, his whole persona, felt richer and deeper than it had moments earlier. As soon as the Supervisor isolates my knowledge-belief space and sees I’ve gone from Partial to Full, they’ll scrub it. That is, once they determine how I became fully instantiated in the first place.

  What are my options? What are my options? Hang around here and wait to be erased? Try to hide? Take over one of the Family’s outworld bodies? Just throw myself on the mercy of the Supervisor and hope for the best?

  Timothy’s hand paused mid-air, a scoop of ice cream hovering above Lady Mirabel’s peaches. He was having thoughts. I’m thinking. I’m having independent thoughts. And I lied! To Lady Chattingbaron, no less! How is that possible? I’m not sure even a Full can do that.

  For the first time in his long existence as a DonTon server Partial, he was thinking outside his simple, inworld programming. His hand remained frozen as he considered the ramifications. Thinking for myself? Astounding!

  The ice cream, however, did not remain frozen. It dripped—once, twice—and slid perilously close to the edge of the spoon. Recovering with an elegant swoop of the wrist right before the sweet cream escaped, Timothy delivered the creamy globe neatly atop the peaches.

  Thankfully, the house guests had resumed their conversations and didn’t notice his hesitation. Even the eagle-eyed Mr. Gowling, busy pouring coffee, gave no indication he’d seen anything amiss.

  Timothy finished serving and took his place in front of the polished oak sideboard. He kept his movements measured and his face neutral, while his mind raced. He was sure the Securitors would intervene and take him away at any moment. I can steal an automobile and escape to London. No one would find me in those crowds.

  Then he remembered who, or rather what, he was trying to evade, the omnipotent inworld Supervisor and its ruthless contingent of Securitor agents. It’s hopeless. There’s nothing I can do; I might as well face my fate with the dignity the Family deserves.

  Crestfallen but ever a professional, Timothy hid his misery. I expect that my inexplicable, miraculous experience of consciousness outside the restrictive program of the DonTon Supervisor will be the shortest independent life the Realm has ever recorded.

  The 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 shared courteous smiles, knowing that 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 to follow, once dinner had a chance to settle and the two groups were brought together again in the Grand Salon.

  As the other guests filed out of the dining room, Mr. Trillian lingered behind to examine an unimportant painting displayed on the wall facing his chair. The painting just happened to be hung beside the closet door that had compelled the man’s attention over dinner.

  Mr. Gowling caught Timothy’s attention and raised his eyebrows meaningfully toward the errant guest. Timothy walked over to see if he could be of service to Mr. Trillian, and Mr. Gowling took his leave. The maids would clear the table; he had more important things to do.

  “A stirring rendition of Lord Chattingbaron’s Great Grandfather at the hunt,” Timothy expounded as he approached Mr. Trillian. Two steps away, th
e 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?”

  Timothy shook his head to clear the sound, but the action served only to make the room swim unsteadily. “Quite sure,” he confirmed, and rested his hand against the wall. “But perhaps I should sit a moment.” He dropped into the chair beside the closet door. “I’m sure it will go away.” He waved his hand, dismissing the guest’s offer of assistance. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  Trillian turned back to the closet door and the buzzing noise in Timothy’s head grew louder. Unseen swarms swirled around him; the room swam in and out of focus. He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to regain his equilibrium. He heard the closet door open, and a wave of hot air washed out from the small space. He smelled the dense, complex odors of a large, industrial city.

  Fighting a nauseating dizziness, Timothy pushed to his feet, steadying his balance with a hand to the wall. He opened his eyes and looked into the closet. The dark, confined space that should have been there was not. Instead of shelves of cleaning supplies, two brooms, and a dustpan, the closet opened onto a city, the likes of which Timothy could never have imagined.

  Impossibly tall buildings lined a broad, busy street filled with more people than Timothy had ever seen. The people were dressed oddly. Some men wore business suits, identifiable as such despite their strange cut and the absence of proper headwear. Many individuals sported embarrassingly inappropriate casual attire. And the women! Timothy was shocked by their immodest garb. Why he could see the naked knees and thighs of those who wore dresses or short skirts.

  Just then, he realized that many of the people he had thought were men were actually young women in some sort of skin-tight blue pants. They must be tradespersons. Had they not been in the middle of such a city, he would have thought them to be farmers.

  While the odd vestments were surprising to the Footman, the automobiles absolutely astonished him. He had never seen such sleek machinery, not in all his days. The collective noise they emanated as their drivers impatiently roared engines and honked horns was an affront to the senses. Even worse, the language that drivers shouted at any pedestrian or vehicle that dared impede their progress was an assault on poor Timothy’s sensibilities.

  Mr. Trillian stood well into the other side of the closet, in the midst of that magnificent, frightful city. Timothy didn’t recognize him right away; the guest’s clothing had changed to match the style of the better-accoutered businessmen on the sidewalk around him. The Shard stretched out his arms and laughed as he whirled to take in the city.

  Timothy stood on wobbly knees in the open doorframe watching him, too flabbergasted to move.

  Trillian looked back over his shoulder and saw the stunned Footman standing at the door. He dropped his arms, amused by the anomaly. From the city side in which the Shard stood, the doorway opened into an opulently-furnished dining room from another era. Few of the frenetic passersby spared a second glance at the formally-dressed servant frozen in the open doorway. After all, this was New York.

  Trillian made a sweeping motion with one hand. “Would you close that please?” he requested, pointing to the door. It was clear that he expected programmed obedience from the servant. The Shard turned without a second glance and set out down the sidewalk, disappearing into an ocean of bobbing heads. Timothy teetered indecisively at the threshold.

  A gasp from the dining room pulled Timothy’s attention from the spectacle of the bustling city. Lady Chattingbaron was standing at the main entrance, a hand delicately covering her gaping mouth. Over the Lady’s shoulder, the Footman saw a matte black, spherical Securitor, hovering in the hallway behind her. She hadn’t sensed it yet; her full attention was locked on the impossible scene behind the Footman.

  “Timothy…,” she began. The Securitor projected a greenish beam, encapsulating and silencing her. The menacing black sphere pushed past her frozen virtual body and floated into the room.

  Timothy bolted across the closet threshold and into the strange world, slamming the closet door behind him. The city was bigger than the London he knew, in fact, bigger than any city he knew. Maybe he could hide from the Securitors here. He ran down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from Mr. Trillian, bouncing off irritated virtual New Yorkers of 2040 who did not take kindly to the Footman’s flight.

  Back in Casa DonTon’s family dining room, the Securitor ripped the closet door from its hinges, revealing a few shelves, two brooms, a dustpan, and some polishing cloths. The city was gone.

  Anomaly has escaped–the Securitor reported, its voice devoid of anger or frustration. It scanned the virtual room for any trace of Timothy. Then, without a sound, it left DonTon.

  About the Author

  When I was very young, a teacher asked our class to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up. My story was titled, "Me, the Everything." I've been fortunate to come close to fulfilling that dream in my life: computer programming, molecular biology, nanotechnology, systems biology, synthetic biology, business consulting, and photocopy repair, to name a few. I've spent way too much of my life in school, eventually earning degrees in computing science (BSc), and in molecular biology and genetics (PhD). I’ve had the opportunity to work with some of the best researchers in the world at The National Institute for Nanotechnology in Edmonton, Canada.

  After decades of reading almost nothing but high-tech science fiction, I decided to take a shot at writing some. I aim for stories that are true to the best available science, while pushing my imagination beyond what we know today. I love biology, particle physics, cosmology, artificial intelligence, cognitive psychology, politics, and economics. My philosophy is empirical physicalism, and I blog regularly about the science and the ideas found in my novels. I believe fiction should educate, challenge, and stimulate as much as it entertains.

  My wife and I currently live in Ecuador where, when we’re not working on exciting and provocative new stories, we study Spanish and practice Chen-style Tai Chi.

  Follow me on Facebook at Paul Anlee or write to me at: paul.anlee.author@gmail.com. Even better, visit me at my website, www.paulanlee.com, read the blog, and sign-up on my email list to be the first to hear about new books, posts, and special announcements. Hint: that’s the best way to hear about FREE offers and exclusive deals!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  Acknowledgements

  Further Reading

  Study Questions

  The Reality Incursion (preview)

  About the Author

 

 

 
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