Labyrinth of reflections lor-1

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  – You successfully exited virtuality! – cheerfully informs Windows-Home. The voice from the headphones is sharp and too loud. The deep blue color with a small figure of flying or better to say, falling man is on the helmet’s screens, the well known emblem of the Deep, the Abyss, the virtual world.

  After taking off the helmet I looked at the monitor, blinked several times. The same picture there.

  – Vika, thanks.

  – No problems, Lenia, – answered Windows-Home. I taught it this small courtesy a week ago, it’s always nice when the program looks more humanized than it really is.

  – Terminal.

  The blue changed into the terminal’s panel. I manually connected to the sixth router, the last one to remain intact and canceled my access. Then I canceled my temporary address in Austria.

  The main threads are broken. Try to find me now Al-Kabar guys, filter all files in search for Ivan The Prince. The diver have broke free from the trap.

  Not using the voice control anymore, I shut Windows-Home down, entered 3D Norton’s table, opened disk D: where all my virtual trophies are stored together with a small viruses collection. Here it is, my apple: 1.5 Meg file. Looks like the simple file for Advanced-Word. A couple of smaller files are attached to it though… security programs? I launched the scanner, especially developed for these types of surprises.

  Yup, just as I thought: identification programs which are supposed to destroy the file if it gets to somebody else’s computer.

  We know this far too well… And are insured against it for a long time already: identification programs simply can’t see my computer. It’s these dangerous things that I always store on D: disk. The scanner located some surprise inside the text file itself too – a tiny program, supposedly starting in response to an attempt to read the file. Just as should have been expected. I copied the file to the magnetic diskette, then to the optical one and started to disembowel the fruit of Al-Kabar’s orchards.

  It turned out to be impossible to kill the security programs without destroying the file. I had to just knock them out, disable them. Then I got busy with the inner surprise. I cut the file into twenty pieces, extracted the guard program. It turned out to be an absolutely unfamiliar polymorph virus which (and it was most unpleasant) have managed to stick to my computer. After two hours of intensive work, interrupted only twice – to take an aspirin tablet and to visit bathroom, I became convinced that I’ll not be able to disable the virus.

  It was late evening, the time when hackers just start working. I packed the virus with a text fragment and called Maniac.

  I had to wait a couple of minutes until he picked up the phone. I was lucky: he easily could hang about in virtuality, indifferent to any calls, fires, floods and other annoying trifles of life.

  – Yes?

  – Maniac, it’s me.

  Hacker’s voice softened a little.

  – Hi Lenia, what’s up?

  – The new virus for your collection.

  – Toss it here! – said Maniac, hanging up instantly.

  I started the modem and sent Al-Kabar’s surprise to greedy hands of the virus creator, then opened the fridge, took out bread and sausage and moved to the kitchen to set the teapot on the stove. It’ll take Maniac at least half an hour to examine the virus. For the first ten minutes he’ll break it, then for 20 minutes more he’ll admire its structure, will laugh looking at unsuccessful solutions and frown finding some ideas he missed himself. Right since the Moscow Convention that resigned with the inevitable and legalized the production of nonfatal viruses, he specializes in making them. His viruses are excellent, capable of freezing any computer, but never destroying the data.

  But Maniac called in three minutes.

  – Visited Al-Kabar, huh? – asked he in a honey sweet voice.

  – Yes. – it made no sense to lie, – You managed it so fast?

  – I didn’t manage it. This is my virus, buddy.

  I couldn’t find anything better than to mumble, “Well… sorry about that…”

  Maniac, in the real life just Sasha { Alexander }, was deadly serious:

  – You what, have stolen a program from them?

  – Not exactly… But in general yes, this was hidden in the file…

  – Have you contacted anybody via modem? I mean, since you received the file.

  – No.

  – Lucky you, – informed Maniac, – You see, this is not just an ordinary virus, it’s a postcard.

  I didn’t understand and Maniac explained:

  – A postcard with return address. If the virus detects the communication hardware on the computer, it attaches the second letter to any of yours: a tiny, invisible one… a postcard. Without any text but with your return address. The letters leave together but later, already from the other computer, the postcard is forwarded directly to Al-Kabar’s security department.

  I froze inside.

  – I’ve killed the virus on the computer…

  – You’ve killed not the virus itself, but its false ‘reflections’ created by it especially for distraction. Commonly used programs don’t detect the postcard yet, it’s still too rare.

  – What should I do?

  – Treat me with beer, – smirked Maniac, – Now you’ll receive a special ‘cure’ from me, the special antivirus. There’s no hints in it, you just start the .BAT file and it checks your machine. Note that it’ll work for long, this is not a commercial product, just … my personal insurance from my own virus.

  – Thanks.

  – Um-hm.. Lenia, you’ve nearly got into really big trouble.

  – Too many hackers were bred, – I growled out, – Shit, why haven’t you ever tell me about this thing?

  – But how could I know you are so deep in computer burglary? – reasonably objected Maniac, – Next time let me know when you are about to break into cool places. Okay, start your modem.

  In a couple of minutes I launched antivirus.. It was really slow, informing that a postcard is detected every minute. The polymorph have plagued the whole computer.

  It was really close.

  Glancing at the screen, I’ve built a huge sandwich, poured a hot tea into the cup and came out to the balcony. It was already dark outside and raining slightly, the air was damp and cold.

  It’s overconfidence that kills divers. We don’t fear the virtual world’s dangers and this lulls our vigilance.

  But the most annoying thing is that we are all amateurs. For some reason, no divers shape out of hackers – they percept the virtual world as the real one.

  Though it was me, the so-so computer artist from the small computer games company that went broke three years ago and who got an old computer as a dismissal pay, who DID become a diver. One of the hundred on this planet.

  I was lucky.

  Possibly, I was just lucky.

  10

  Not more than five years ago the virtual world was nothing more but the sci-fi writers’ creation. Computer networks, virtual helmets and suits already existed, but all this was only profanation. Hundreds of games were created where one could move in the spacious and colorful cyberspace but virtuality even couldn’t be mentioned.

  The world created by computers is too primitive, it can’t be compared even with cartoons, not to mention movies. Thus, the real world is completely out of question. One could run around in the drawn labyrinths and castles, fight with monsters or with his own friends who sit by the computers as well. But even in the worst feverish ravings it was impossible to confuse reality and illusion.

  Computer networks allowed people all over the world to communicate, but it was nothing more than exchanging character lines on the screen… in the best case – the drawn face of your interlocutor could be on the screen too.

  The real virtuality required too powerful computers, extremely high quality communication lines, titanic work of millions of programmers. It would take several dozens of years to build the city like Deeptown.

  Everything had
changed dramatically when Dmitry Dibenko, the former hacker from Moscow (now the wealthy US citizen) invented The Deep: a tiny program influencing human subconsciousness. They say he was crazy about Castaneda’s books, liked to meditate and smoked grass. I surely believe in it. His former friends confess that he was cynical and lazy, a sloven and very so-so professional. In this I do believe too.

  But it was him who gave rise to the deep. Ten second clip displayed on the screen is harmless by itself. If shown on TV (I heard it was dared to be done in some countries), the TV watcher won’t feel anything and will not become a movie character. Dmitry himself just wanted to create a pleasant meditation background for his computer, and he did, let it circulate along the Net and didn’t suspect anything for two more weeks.

  But then, one day some Ukranian guy looked at the colorful plays of the Deep program, shrugged and launched his favorite game – Doom: drawn corridors and buildings, terrible monsters and brave hero with a shotgun in his hand. A simple 3D game, the whole era of 3D games was started with it.

  And he ‘fell’ into the game.

  An empty floor of the Patenting Bureau (it was a late evening) where the guy worked, disappeared. He couldn’t see his computer anymore. His fingers were hitting the keys making the drawn figure to move, to turn, to shoot, but it seemed to him that it’s HIM running along the corridors, ducking the fiery balls and snarling monsters’ mugs. He understood that this is just a game, but he didn’t know why it became real and how to exit it.

  The only thing he could do in this situation was to go until the very end. And he did it despite the fact that it turned out to be much more difficult now.

  The slight wound now became not just the lowered percent of ‘strength’ on the screen, but something the wound is supposed to be: pain, weakness, fear. He realized that the bloody floor becomes slippery, that the stony slab behind which the shells are hidden is really heavy, that ejected shells are hot and rocket launcher’s recoil nearly knocks him off his feet, that the health potion is bitter and loathsome, that the armor turned out to be made of thin metal plates and is pretty lightweight – but a little too baggy and has uncomfortable ties on the back. In around three hours the shotgun trigger started to jam, he had to hit it slowly and carefully, moving the finger from side to side.

  By 5 am he finished the game. The monsters were cast down. The game menu had appeared on the stone wall before him and he pushed the shotgun’s barrel into it with a scream.

  The illusion dissipated, he was sitting by the peacefully droning computer, his eyes watered, the keyboard under his stiff fingers totally ruined. The key he was using as a shotgun trigger was stuck.

  The guy shut down the computer and fell asleep right by the table. The employees that soon arrived noticed that his face and hands were badly bruised.

  He told about what happened and of course nobody believed him. Only by the evening, thinking about what could happen, he remembered about Dibenko’s meditation program and suspected wrong.

  The whole world was in fever a week later. All corporations except computer and software ones suffered tremendous losses: everybody starting from programmers and ending with secretaries and janitors, wanted to visit the cyberspace personally.

  With Dibenko’s light touch the program was named ‘Deep’ and began its march all over the world. The studies proving that around 7% of people are not affected by the abyss were still ahead, as well as those proving that being in virtuality for more than 10 hours a day might lead to nervous disorders and pseudoschizoid syndrome. Just a month left until the first death in virtuality when an aged man whose destroyer was burned in a space war above the intellectual purple reptiles’ planet, died of a heart attack right by the keyboard.

  It couldn’t scare anyone anymore.

  The world have immersed itself.

  Deeptown was created by Microsoft and IBM on the Internet.

  The main advantage of virtuality was simplicity. It wasn’t necessary to draw buildings and palaces, human faces and machines in all detail, just the general outline and several small recognizable hints. The brown wall divided into squares is a brick wall. The blue above is the sky. Blue pants – jeans.

  The world submerged and wasn’t going to surface back. It was so much more interesting in the deep. Even if it was yet not available to everybody, intellectual elite swore it’s allegiance to the new Empire.

  To the Deep.

  11

  It was midnight when I finally cleaned the computer up from the postcard virus and packed the bagged file (in virtuality it’ll look like the ordinary diskette now). The head stopped aching and the sleepiness disappeared completely. No Deeptown inhabitant sleeps at night, right?

  – Vika, restart, – I commanded.

  The thoughtful female face on the screen frowned:

  – Really?

  – Sure.

  The screen dimmed slightly, the image blurred. Then the hard drive started blinking indicating system restart. My machine is just Pentium, not a ‘serious’ one but I still can’t make up my mind to substitute it with a newer computer. It’s reliable enough.

  – Good evening Lenia, – said Vika, – I’m ready for work.

  – Thanks. Connect to Deeptown… use the regular channel.

  Modem chirped dialing, I put the helmet on and sat down.

  – 28800 connection, the channel is stable, – said Vika.

  – Turn the Deep on.

  – Done.

  Light blue on the screen, flash, then – colorfulness.

  How did you manage to create the deep program, Dima? With your shattered mentality, basic knowledge in psychology, and no knowledge in neurophysiology? What helped you?

  Now, when you’re rich and famous, what are you trying to do? To understand how it dawned upon you or to invent something more amazing? Or just lead your dissolute life and smoke the grass as much as you want? Or wander along Deeptown’s streets all around the clock looking at your creation?

  I wish I knew that, but – not to be in your shoes, because you’re not more than the ordinary virtuality inhabitant, even with all your millions and Octium prototype as a home computer. The Deep holds you as tightly as any provincial programmer from Russian remote who saves money for months just to visit Deeptown once.

  You’re not the diver, Dima, and this is why I’m happier than you.

  … The same room, but there are neon sign flashes and slight noise of moving cars outside.

  – Is everything okay Lenia?

  I look around.

  – Yes. I’ll go for a walk, Vika.

  I pick up the diskette and put it into my pocket. The portable CD player lies on the shelf among several books and the pile of CDs. I insert ELO’s CD into it, put on headphones, push ‘play’. ‘Roll over Beethoven’ – just what I wanted. Accompanied by the cheerful music I leave the apartment and shut the door.

  No bugs this time. Standing on the sidewalk, I raise my hand and stop the cab. This time the driver is an aged man, stout and very intelligent looking.

  – Deep-Transit is glad to welcome you Lenia.

  I get inside and nod:

  – To the ‘Three Piglets’ restaurant.

  This address is well known to the driver. We move fast, a couple of turns and we’re before the odd building: partially stone one, partially wooden, partially built of straw mats.

  I enter the too familiar restaurant and look around. It is divided into three parts – Eastern cuisine is served in the ‘mat’ one, European – in the stone one, and Russian

  – in the wooden one obviously.

  I’m not really hungry; virtual food subjectively satiates, and being in dire straits I usually eat in ‘Three piglets’, but now I just have to wait for my partner.

  I walk directly to the bar, behind which the robust man is standing, taking off the headphones as I walk.

  – Hi Andrei.

  Sometimes the owner serves his virtual customers himself, but today it’s obviously not the case. The b
artender smiles but it’s just an automatic courtesy:

  – Hi! What would you like to drink?

  – Gin-Tonic with ice, as usual.

  I watch bartender mixing the drink. Tonic is the real Shweppes, Gin is the decent Beefeater. The liquor companies allow to use their trade marks and products’ images in virtuality for just a symbolic charge: it’s a good advertisement. Pepsi is free at all: it was their marketing trick. Coke costs as much as in reality though.

  And it has good sales.

  I take the glass and sit by the empty table, watching the guests: it’s always interesting.

  The number of men and women is approximately the same. Absolutely all women are perfectly beautiful and of all types: from blond Scandinavians to charcoal black Africans. Most men are terrible freaks. No, it’s not true of course, just my subconsciousness notes all follies in men’s virtual shells – disproportionately muscular figures and too recognizable physiognomies of movie stars glued to body-builders’ bodies.

  Exception is made for the women though: they all are beautiful.

  I take a sip of Gin and lean on the table relaxed: oh it feels good…

  No real bar or restaurant can be compared with the virtual one. They always cook great here. You never have to wait to be served. The huge dose of alcohol won’t cause hangover.

  But having a real life experience, one really can feel drunk… and subconsciousness dives into the alcohol drug cheerfully. They say that the body’s natural narcotics – endorphines start being produced then. True or not, intoxication doesn’t disappear instantly when one exits virtuality.

  – Sorry, may I please?… – the young girl sits down by my side. Blond hair, clean, slightly dim skin, a simple white suit, a little golden medallion on her neck: most likely, a program of some sort. She’s pretty cute and thanks God, not recognizable: either she designed her face by herself or used some rare seen painting as a model or found a cute but not too familiar face in some movie.

  – Sure, – I turn to her. The bartender already gives her a glass of wine: ‘Emperor’, the Chilean one. This girl has a good taste.