Analog SFF, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She blinked and turned toward the sea.

  "It's just so outrageously metaphorical,” she said. “Biological viruses and computer viruses, reality and virtual reality. I hate metaphors."

  Perhaps it wasn't my place to ask personal questions, but I did: “So why are you taking a literature course?"

  She made a face. “I want to be a writer."

  "So you're studying Moby Dick to learn how to write?"

  "How not to write. I don't care if it is a classic, this novel is awful. It's one dreary metaphor after another. Everything is symbolic. Omens, Fate, Destiny. God moving people around like chess pieces. You just want to grab Melville by the scruff and shake him and shout, ‘That's not how life is!’”

  "So ... you believe in free will."

  Her response was a mumble: “Until I got trapped in a computer program."

  "THERE SHE BLOWS!"

  The shout came from above. One of the crew was hanging onto the top of the central mast. We turned to the direction of his outstretched arm, straight ahead, and saw nothing.

  "It's still over the horizon from our point of view,” she said. She sniffed. “You know what? I think I've got it, too."

  "What? A cold?” A thousand miles distant, I stepped away.

  "No! That thing you have. Evocation. I mean, I smell land. That's what Melville said Moby Dick smells like, because the whale snags all the floating refuse in the sea—"

  "Something's wrong,” I said.

  Subconsciously, Evocation had directed my gaze downward. The hull was almost wakeless. Feeling a tingle at my back, I whirled around and saw—him.

  I walked over for close inspection, and he stopped issuing orders long enough to eye me as I eyed him. He was the same height as me and wore the same coat, trousers, and boots that I did, and his beard was the same length and color as the one that the simulation had recently sprouted onto my cheeks.

  He gave me a nod, then emphatically gestured upward at the masts, where the sails were rapidly being lowered by the crew.

  "Don't just stand there, man!” First Mate Starbuck said. “Help reef those sails. Captain's orders!"

  I sighed. I calmly reached into my satchel. I pulled out the .357 magnum, flipped off the safety, and shot him in the chest.

  As he thudded to the deck, I shouted to the crew: “All hands—make sail!"

  Without missing a beat, the men reversed their activity. The ship shuddered with increased speed. I dragged the body of the original Starbuck to the rail and dumped it over the side. She watched in silence.

  * * * *

  In simulations constructed with the Virtual Basic Object and Physics Language, the default shape of the world is round. Thus the guy atop the mast had seen a lot farther over the horizon than we could. Minutes passed, minutes we didn't have. Finally, ahead at the rim of the world, a pillar of white gushered.

  "The spout,” she said.

  It spread into a fan and dissipated, then burst again. We closed swiftly. She stared distantly, declining to meet my gaze.

  "It was either him or us,” I said.

  "I know."

  "I mean, he wasn't real—"

  "I know."

  Again the spout burst, fanned, faded.

  I sighed. “Well, maybe I'm the one who's bothered. The AIs get better every year, and sometimes I wonder on which side of the trigger is the being who's the most intelligent and self-aware."

  "Uh-huh,” she said. I don't think she was really listening.

  Just a few hundred yards away, the whale breached, flinging the entirety of its body out of the water, creating a hollow with its splash as big as the ship. But then, the creature was as big as the ship to start with.

  For what little I had thought about it in the course of my life, I'd the impression that Moby Dick was a pure albino, but that wasn't quite right. His forehead and hump were white, but the rest of his skin was streaky and mottled. The general shape was that of a baseball bat, a really big one. I saw a bead reflecting sunlight from the side, about six feet ahead of the flippers. It was the eye, and it was staring back.

  "Pazuzu," I murmured.

  "What?"

  "The name of the virus. Originally, the name of a Babylonian—"

  The cabin door slammed open, loudly enough to be heard down the length of the ship. I heard a clopping noise. We turned at the same time.

  Coming toward us was a man, whose wrinkled and weather-beaten features placed him in his sixties. He wore black clothing, a black hat, and a dense black beard. One side of his face had a scar that ran ragged from forehead to neck, where it spread into a vertical slit so deep that I expected blood to gush out. There was another slit, exactly the same, on the other side of his neck, but what caught my attention most was his wooden leg. That was the source of the noise.

  Clop. Clop. Clop. He limped to the bow and met my gaze.

  "Starbuck,” he croaked.

  "Captain,” I replied.

  He watched the whale a moment, then bellowed: “READY ALL BOATS!"

  The crew worked the sail rigging and the ship came to a standstill. They streamed into the boats, took seats, raised oars, readied harpoons. One boat launched, then another. More swiftly than you'd expect of a wooden vessel powered by human arms, they streaked toward their prey, mates shouting the strokes with curses interspersed.

  One boat went wide to the left, the other to the right. They were boxing it in.

  From less than arm's reach, well within my personal space, Ahab faced me. His eyes were wide and glistened. His voice rumbled above the waves and the shouts from the boats.

  "Starbuck,” he said, “of late I've felt strangely moved to thee; ever since that hour we both saw—thou know'st what, in one another's eyes."

  Instantly, I thought: Is he the virus? Slowly my hand reached for the satchel. But the water ahead stirred, and out came a great foaming mass, arousing cries from the boats. Ahab diverted his gaze.

  "But in this matter of the whale,” he continued, “be the front of thy face to me as the palm of his hand—a lipless, unfeatured blank. Ahab is for ever Ahab, man."

  From the archaic language, I realized he was merely reciting from the book. Somehow, that was less than reassuring.

  His voice rose and quivered: “This whole act's immutably decreed. ‘Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled. Fool! I am the Fates’ lieutenant; I act under orders."

  I have to admit, I felt a little creeped.

  Abruptly, Ahab glared and I flinched and he squared his shoulders and I raised my arms, but he only muttered, “I'll see you in hell!” and stormed off toward one of the two remaining boats, which he boarded, shouting orders and profanities.

  "Well,” I said, regaining some composure. “He's rather colorful."

  "Yeah,” she said. “One of the great characters of literature. If you go in for histrionics."

  She cradled a computer tablet. I craned to look.

  "What have you got there?"

  "The novel.” Lines of print scored the screen. “I did a keyword search, to follow his monologue. That last sentence—'I'll see you in hell'—it's not in the book."

  "Hmm. You know, the rest of what he said—well, it was weird. It's what it must be like to be an artificial being in an artificial world."

  "Because he's a fictional character in a work of fiction. Melville milks it for all it's worth.” She held out the tablet. “You can read it if you want."

  "I'll pass."

  Milks it for all it's worth, I thought, smiling when her back was turned.

  The third boat, containing Ahab, lowered into the water and launched toward the whale. The whale made turbulent circles, spiraling inward as the boats closed.

  She yawned. “I'm going to nap as soon as I get home."

  I consulted my tablet. It was late afternoon in the outer world. Probably would be evening by the time I got home. If you get home, I qualified. I had a hunch Pazuzu wouldn't make it as easy as we hoped. The interne
t got rid of the dumb viruses long ago.

  "Dudes!” The boy was waving from mid-deck. “The prof says we gotta get off the ship."

  We filed into the remaining boat. I sat next to the professor. The boy slipped in alongside the girl and grinned and tried to make small talk. Harpoon Guy took position in the front, tying his shaft to a coiled rope. Then the boat rocked, suspended in midair along the ship's hull, and we waited.

  "How come we're not going?” I asked.

  "Possibly,” the professor said, “because you're in command."

  With a little help from the girl in the terminology department, I ordered the crew to lower us into the water. As the men stroked their oars, I took an encompassing look at the receding ship. The bow had the name, ‘Pequod,’ and a wooden head wearing a Native American headdress of feathers. The deck was deserted save for a small boy with a tambourine. The tiller was bleach white and crooked. At the stern, a man-sized box dangled.

  I pointed. “That looks like a coffin."

  The girl replied, “It is."

  "Is there a utilitarian reason why a coffin is hanging off the end of the ship?"

  "There is, but the real reason is because Melville has to pile on the symbolism."

  I was beginning to understand her attitude about that. When you're facing a life-or-death situation, you don't appreciate ominous omens being shoved in your face. Especially not blatant ones. Well, at least he didn't have a raven perched upon a mast. Just then, an albatross circled overhead.

  * * * *

  As our boat glided toward the other boats and the whale, a pair of sharks nipped at the oars. They ignored my hand as I dipped it into the water, but nonetheless pain instantly shot up my fingers. I retracted my hand and frowned at my shimmering, broken reflection on the face of the sea. Sharks, yes, but water wasn't supposed to bite. The membrane was turning eccentric, maybe even cranky.

  "I'm back,” Ramathustra said in my ear. After being filled on the status, he said in a low, slow voice, “The IT chief and the system admin want to try something."

  "You sound like you have misgivings."

  "They intend to rapidly bombard the system with low-level interrupt commands. It is not in itself dangerous, but—we'll see."

  I rubbed my palm against the top of the gunwale. Though the edges were crisp to the eye, they felt round to the touch.

  "You'd better try something soon. Even this unit's membrane is starting to bloat."

  Ramathustra broke away and I turned my attention ahead once more. Among the waves ahead, the whale was visible most of the time only as a spout. Now and then, the tail flipped high. When it did, I marked the distance between it and the nearest boat.

  "They're not closing,” I said.

  "It shouldn't take this long,” the professor replied.

  "Does the whale seem ... sneakier ... than usual?"

  "It's not the whale,” the girl said. “It's Ahab. Watch—he's letting the whale get away."

  She stood up. One look at the churning waves and I shook my head, but forced myself to stand as well. In reality the rocking was minor, and the small increase in altitude enabled me to see over the wave caps.

  Mere inches beneath the surface, the whale's bulk slipped past Ahab's boat. Moby was huge, busloads and busloads of hugeness, big enough to snack on a human, big as a redwood in sheer massiveness. Was it the exaggeration of the novel, or of the simulation design team, or did the real world allow for such monsters?

  The harpooner in the captain's boat tracked their gargantuan prey from the prow, arm poised for the throw, which would have been a clear shot. Seated immediately behind him, Ahab watched without comment as the whale surged away. I watched the cycling oars and compared their motion to ours. They were moving at only half speed.

  "You're right,” I said. “And if Ahab's giving the wrong orders—well, we're about to have a mutiny."

  I dove my arm into the satchel and extracted the magnum. Then I judged distance and the motion of the target. I put the handgun back and removed the machine gun.

  The boy watched me intently. “I know that weapon, it's in one of my video games. That's an old AK-47. Isn't that kind of, well, last century?"

  "We made some mods,” I replied.

  I set the control knobs on the rifle stock for infinite rounds and maximum firing rate and velocity, each ten times the performance of the real-world version, then chased Ahab's back with the laser targeting dot. But before I could compensate for the pitching of the boats, Ahab arose and shouted at the harpooner.

  Immediately the harpoon was flung. It sailed in a flat arc, a rope trailing behind it. The point gouged deep into Moby's skin. With a splash of his flukes, the whale dove. The rope grew taut, and Ahab staggered and pitched over the side of the boat.

  His good leg snagged by the rope and towed by the whale, Ahab skidded across the sea, then submerged with flailing arms and a cry cut short.

  "Here we go!” the professor said. “Won't be long now!"

  The girl, though, was frowning. “This isn't how it goes in the book. Ahab drives a harpoon into Moby at close range, then the rope wraps around his neck, then—"

  I shook my head at her inquiring gaze and ordered the boat to stop. We waited. With the rifle resting across my lap, I squeezed the barrel. It felt thick and doughy—which made me feel chilled and queasy.

  The professor's expression degraded from enthusiasm to perplexity.

  "It shouldn't take this long,” he said. “It never takes this long."

  Then water gurgled a stone's throw ahead. The whale broke the surface and breached high. The body flopped and the bow shock rocked the boats. A wall of flesh with the mass and speed of a train smashed the boat that had borne Ahab with a crack of splintering wood.

  Several loops of harpoon rope had wound around the midsection of the whale, and Ahab, hanging limply with eyes closed, was bound to the side. His hat was missing and his head was drooped so much that his chin touched his chest. As the whale rolled, Ahab's free arm swung broadly from left to right, right to left.

  "That looks ... fakey,” I said.

  "I suppose you wouldn't understand,” the professor said. “It's a metaphor. He's beckoning us to follow him into death."

  I got that. It still looked fakey. Which seemed very odd, given the exquisite attention to detail manifested everywhere else in the sim.

  The whale submerged. It was spooky to see something so massive move as quickly and silently as that, as spooky as the shifting of shadows in the murkiest of dragon lairs. And in my work, I've seen my share of those.

  The professor's face had turned ashen. “We're still here. It always ends here. Always. Why isn't it ending?"

  I ignored his accusing tone. The whale broke the surface, yards away. It plowed toward another boat, struck in midsection, then came about and smashed the other remaining boat. The men, mysteriously, were seemingly consumed within the foaming wave front.

  Remaining on the surface, the whale charged toward the ship with all the speed and mass of a rampaging rhino herd. The crash came with a boom and a shower of planks. The masts toppled and the sundered body of the ship was swallowed by the sea. I didn't need to read the book to figure out Moby's next move. The whale charged the last surviving vessel—ours. I aimed the AK-47 and pulled the trigger. The gun chittered without smoke or recoil, spewing a stream of lead. Bullets smashed into the barnacled hide and splattered blood. The wall kept coming.

  "Oars!” I shouted. “Steer hard right!"

  The crew rowed with inhuman vigor. Passing on our left, the whale brushed the oars and broke the tips. The boat lurched and spun in a circle as the idiot crew kept obeying my last order. Then the boy lost his balance and tumbled into the water.

  "Help!” he screamed as he flopped. “It's crushing me!"

  "Oars stop!” I shouted.

  All three of us pulled him into the boat. Since he hadn't been in real water, he was dry and aside from freaking out, he was all right. As he sprawled onto the f
loor of the boat and gulped air, I pushed my hand into the sea. No pain this time, because we weren't moving as before. But it was thickish, with a consistency between oatmeal and setting concrete.

  Moby wheeled around for another pass as the boat bobbed helplessly. The boy watched wide-eyed, still gasping, doubtless wondering if his reprieve had been temporary. If we lost the boat and ended up treading with him in that goop of a sea, the relentlessly compressing membrane would soon squeeze the air from all our lungs, shaving minutes off what little time we had left to come up with a way of escape.

  "We're still here—” the professor said.

  "Let me think!” I snapped.

  Ramathustra cut in: “What's going on—"

  "LET ME THINK!"

  I realized I had to escalate. I pawed inside the satchel and extracted a hand grenade. I cut a segment from the harpoon line and tied the grenade to the harpoon shaft. Handling knots is always clumsy in a VR simulation, and the sluggish membrane didn't make it easier. By the time I finished a couple of square knots, Moby was back and closing.

  I slapped Harpoon Guy's arm. “Quikwa—Quakwee—"

  "Queequeg!" the girl said.

  "Queequeg! Throw! Throw now!"

  He wordlessly and grimly nodded. He faced the onrushing whale. He cocked his arm back. Barely in time, I pulled the grenade pin. Then he loosed the shaft and it sailed smoothly and hit the whale dead on the forehead. Flame and smoke belched and the concussion rocked me off my feet.

  When I regained my seat, the whale had a bloody crater on his head and was drifting amid a pool of blood sprinkled with tatters of blubber—some of which were still raining. The imagery was so vivid, I smelled the stench. I don't think I was the only one.

  "Dude,” the boy said. “This is so politically incorrect!"

  The girl was pinching the gunwale and said: “Something weird is happening. This feels twice as wide as it looks!"

  I stretched out my arm. My eyes told me that there was nothing in front of me but air. But I sensed the enveloping membrane, just beyond reach. I poked, and the tips of my fingers touched it before it could get out of the way.

  "Ramathustra,” I said. “The membrane is degrading too fast."