“You can go back to your classes now. Be sure to get some Sharebox headsets in here soon too. We have great education programs. Best in the world. And now you can all rest easy tonight knowing you helped us catch a dangerous criminal menace today.”
Then he looked at Charlotte with that same horrible grin, a caricature of human emotion.
“Cheers, Miss Boone.” And he turned and walked off.
Now
The Patriot Palace’s main plaza was crammed with avatars. When Sharebox users first created their accounts, an avatar was automatically generated based on their appearance. But the software never created obese or unattractive models. There was a natural slimming down, a softening of unsightly skin problems, a flattering rendering module for every avatar’s hairstyle. And Sharesquare engineers were constantly improving the graphics engine and processors, so that every few months the visuals inside Sharebox took a leap forward in realism.
You could always customize appearances somewhat: change hair color, get a nose pierced, upgrade your clothes using in-Sharebox currency. The buying and selling of designer avatar fashion was a substantial industry. Men always wanted to be tall and have broad shoulders. Women wanted perky chests and slim waists. So in the end, most avatars everywhere ending up having similar body archetypes.
At this point, the avatars almost looked like real people, except they were all too attractive—everyone. That’s what made looking at large crowds of people feel so artificial sometimes. It wasn’t something that was replicated in real life anywhere, except perhaps at a fashion show after-party.
The buildings and streets benefited from the constant rendering improvements as well. In Sharebox version 1.0, walls were generally bare and untextured, and building designs were kept simple for the sake of keeping processing loads manageable.
But virtual reality was an innovative growth industry. Manufacturing, financial services, agriculture, and other former stalwarts of American industry were all facing decline. The sciences were particularly hit, as the government withdrew virtually all funding research. So the greatest minds emerging from the nation’s schools contributed to Sharebox software development and hoped the company might one day hire them or buy them out.
So, virtual flowers came to look just like real flowers. They could even be plucked. Glass tables and windows could be broken if struck or knocked over. Tools like axes could be bought in the virtual world, and they could be used to cut trees or even hack holes into walls just as they would in the real world.
Sharebox perhaps could have lost some of its luster as the appeal of its novelty waned, but the constant improvements were ever blurring the line between the real world and this one. So people stayed hooked.
Darnell Holmes looked out at the crowds from his podium. He had the luxury of the most advanced virtual reality hardware at the Sharesquare campus. A camera mounted in front of his face in real life captured his facial expressions—every smile, nod and subtle eyebrow raise, and relayed them seamlessly to his avatar. He wore a full-body haptic suit that captured his broader gestures and movements. It made his avatar appear exceptionally lifelike and genuine. When he walked on the 360-degree treadmill, his avatar would even capture the limp in his left leg.
Not everyone could afford that kind of lifelike representation, not everyone wanted it, but Sharesquare employees had access to the best.
“The dream of Sharebox was always to help raise up marginalized voices,” he spoke to the crowd. “Places like the Patriot Palace—you all love it here, right?”
The avatars clapped and hooted. Darnell hoped the strain on his smile was not as transparent on his avatar as it felt in real life.
“Places like the Palace allow anyone to get their messages heard,” he continued. “We’ve broken down the barriers to communicate. That’s why we’re holding this conference here instead of Homepad. We’re happy to see News Cities like this one flourish.”
More clapping.
“I’ll take any questions now.”
The hand of a young woman with long black hair in twists shot upwards in the front row.
“Mister Holmes, can you comment on how many users in Sharebox are real versus bots designed to spread propaganda?”
Darnell smiled wide and nodded in a gesture he had been taught by his boss, Mariko, that was designed to acknowledge that he respected the question while rejecting its content.
“We’re always on the lookout for ways to improve the Sharebox experience. There are always trade-offs when you try to maintain an open platform for everyone to join and share ideas. We do believe the negative effects of bots are a little overstated.”
Then he turned to take another question, but the girl with the twists broke in again.
“A recent study tied a rise of hate crimes across the country not only to radical fringe groups hosted on Sharebox, but also to chat lounges and speaking events right here at the Palace. Seven people have died in such incidents in the past week. What are you—”
“I think that’s quite enough. Thank you,” interrupted Mariko’s avatar, dressed in a luxurious red and gold outfit that was part kimono and part business suit, moving from behind Darnell to the forefront of the stage. “Let’s give someone else the chance to ask a question.”
“Is there any validity to the allegation that the company is conspiring with government officials to spread misinformation? Because we have several reports suggesting News City owners like the Palace have knowingly propagated false stories at the behest of the White House,” the woman continued, shouting over colleagues attempting to ask their own questions.
Mariko cleared her throat, and in real life, her eyes flashed with sufficient contempt that it was visible on her avatar.
“What is your name and what press outlet are you with?”
“I’m Brittany Williams with the Post.”
“I see. Thank you, Brittany,” responded Mariko, and she nodded to a security officer on the edge of the square.
The officer maneuvered his way through the crowd briskly, reached Brittany, and laid his fingers on a spot underneath her avatar’s chin. She opened her mouth to protest but then disappeared before any words came out. There was a digital sound, almost like the beep a phone makes when it hangs up, and text hung in the air where she had stood.
Name: Brittany Williams
Username: bwilliams92
IP Address: 52.53281.49
Physical location: 2929 Divisadero Street, San Francisco, CA
Most of the other journalists and onlookers in the crowd clapped approvingly.
“Whew, I didn’t even realize the Post was still around,” said Mariko with a small laugh. “They may have done good reporting once, but I don’t think they even have their own News City. What a shame when outlets like that can’t stay current with the times. This is why people get their information from places like the Palace,” she shrugged, motioning to the buildings and streets that surrounded them. “Some people just hate that now everybody gets a voice. That we get to have a platform that is as free as our country. This is what real journalism looks like now.”
The question session ended, and the avatars in the square dispersed onwards to other press events and shows being held nearby. Mariko and Darnell logged out and found themselves standing in a white-walled office room under fluorescent lighting and an open floor plan. They took off their headsets, and Mariko turned to flash him a patient smile.
“I am sorry about that reporter. I thought hosting the event at the Palace would ensure it would be more of a softball interview for you.”
“It’s okay,” said Darnell. “Is it true what she was asking?”
Mariko laughed again, the same thinly-veiled mock of a laugh she had just used inside the Patriot Palace. “It doesn’t matter what’s true. Leave that to someone else. That’s the point. Your job is protecting the image of the company.”
/> Darnell sat back at his desk. The workplace services team had set him up quite nicely. It was an ergonomically designed setup—no expenses spared in his monitor or equipment. His new teammates had all scribbled notes with welcome messages that crowded the edges of his keyboard.
The first task he was given as a new employee in the press team was to schedule next week’s news conference and coordinate with media partners beforehand.
He stared at his computer for a time, his mind drifting. Did Charlotte Boone ever get his message? Did Arlo ever capture that hacker? Something about that extradition mission left him feeling increasingly discomforted.
He opened up a window on his display to search Sharebox profiles for the Post reporter, Brittany Williams. Then he sent her a chat message using his personal profile.
It’s me from the press briefing. I’d be interested in talking more about your questions today if you have the time.
Brittany’s reply came through almost instantly.
…OK??… Want me to set up a Sharebox space for us to chat?
Talking with a reporter within Sharebox itself struck him as a poor idea.
Let’s meet in person.
Now
Charlotte checked on the headmaster and the children—everyone was fine—and then followed the trail she had descended with Orion the day before.
His kidnappers had moved quickly. Before she could reach the plateau, she heard the sound of a helicopter overhead disappear off towards the east. When she came to the spot where she and Orion had left the yellow plane, there was no evidence of the attackers at all.
But Arlo and his team had certainly rummaged through the plane. The cockpit seating was torn by knives. The small storage compartments underneath the seats had been opened, and the materials inside, first-aid kits and repair parts, were strewn in the grass nearby.
Orion said it was here though. He said Diana was in a compartment on the plane. And yet it seemed Arlo had admitted that he hadn’t found any hardware.
Charlotte ran her fingers along the sides of the aircraft. Orion had said he worked in every life to find and fix the engine on this plane. It didn’t seem farfetched to think he would have also built a hidden panel—well, not so far fetched as everything else she had heard that morning.
The screws that held the plane’s sleek, metal body together were uniform in appearance and not particularly worn. But there was a set of six screws underneath the starboard size of the plane where the x-marked divots were free of dirt and any hint of rust as if they had been opened many times before.
She searched the tall grass around the plane for a screwdriver, and after ten minutes of looking, she nearly despaired the effort. Then she spied a black case containing a small collection of wrenches and screwdrivers. Finding the one she needed, she set to work loosening the six screws.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. What could Diana, the robot associated with crimes against humanity so devastating that the world was on the brink of collapse, do for her? Perhaps she was curious because the robot was the only other entity in the world who knew about Orion. Maybe she could tell Charlotte whether or not everything she had been told was an elaborate fiction. Maybe she would know how to get Orion back.
After the last screw was removed, the metal plating came out in Charlotte’s hands, revealing a small space the size of a car’s glove compartment. Reaching in, she pulled out a black, rectangular device with a blunt antenna on one side. Charlotte placed it on her lap and sat down on the grass.
“Are you Diana?”
Charlotte spoke to it feeling slightly ridiculous, as if she were awakening a genie from a bottle.
The box made no whirring sounds or lights. There was no evidence at all that the component was functioning or emerging from a slumber.
“I am in low power mode to avoid detection. Would you like me to awaken from low power mode?”
“I don’t know what that means. I just need to talk with you.”
“Who are you?” asked the speaker. “I do not belong to you.”
“I am a friend of Orion. Or Michael Jacobs. Whatever you want to call him. He’s been taken away.”
“Who took him?”
“A man named Arlo Zimmer, I think. Orion said something about him working for a man named Devon.”
The box was silent for a moment. “This is very unfortunate news,” the device responded but offered nothing else.
Charlotte had never seen or heard of a machine that could talk like this black box could. Talking with this black box was eerily like having a conversation with a real person.
“Orion told me everything about you,” Charlotte ventured cautiously. “We can talk candidly. I know he believes he has lived for multiple lives. I know about the brain transmission plan.”
Again, there was silence for a moment. Charlotte wondered what it meant when a robot took pauses before answering.
“If you’re looking for me to confirm Michael’s story, I’m afraid I can’t do that. I do not receive the transmissions myself. He has configured my operation from a duplicated copy of my original codebase, and he has given me insightful programming updates and information that has otherwise greatly accelerated the research he has asked me to do.”
“Research like hacking into Sharebox and transcribing his brain activity into a computer file?”
“Not quite in those words, but yes.”
Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. Cradling the black box in her hands, she rested her back against the tail of the plane. It was past noon now. She had no way of flying this plane out. She would need to get back to the school to get a hired car to pick her up, but it was growing unlikely at this point that she might find one by the end of the day.
“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.
“I am not sure. I cannot continue my neural digitization research without being in close proximity to Michael’s implant, and if I continue hacking Sharebox protocols, I risk giving away my location again. Those were my directives.”
“So are you saying you can’t even do the brain transmission thing now that he’s gone?”
“No,” answered the device, its machine-manufactured politeness betraying no impatience or emotion. “We would not be able to finish the neural transmission program without finding him. I need to digest the readings the live implant emits for many years.”
Charlotte sighed.
“So if Orion is arrested and thrown in jail for the rest of his life, and you don’t have access to him, then there will definitely be no chance at him having another life, an eighth life?”
“Correct.”
Charlotte’s mind was racing. Orion had said he was getting close—close to a strategy of using his life replays and Diana’s hacking abilities to stop the toxic polarization of Sharebox before the world went over a cliff. If his story were true, he was the only person capable of preventing everything that would go wrong.
If his story were true.
If. If. If.
Everything depended on that two-letter word. Because if it were all true, not rescuing Orion meant the end of the world.
This was a mess. And she could forget it and go back home to her ranch staff, to her library and her horses and forget all this. But she couldn’t shake that look Orion gave her that morning—the longing and the fire in his face. She remembered the sketch of the child who had her eyes. She remembered how when Orion touched her, it was like he knew almost everything there was to know about her.
“Diana, can you try to find out where they are going to take him?”
“It’s risky, but yes.”
“Then do that,” Charlotte said. And holding the black device in her hand, she set off back down the trail to the orphanage.
A hired car picked her up early the next morning before dawn. They drove on country roads back to the Malawi bo
rder and then on to the ranch, arriving there late in the afternoon.
She gave Moyenda the plane keys, and asked him to help coordinate the hiring of a pilot to bring Orion’s flyer back to the ranch. When she walked into the kitchen, Njemile handed her a note with a short message from a man named Darnell who claimed to have met Charlotte in Lilongwe:
They know where the ranch is. They’ll never stop looking for you. You need to get away.
A warning too late to be of help.
Another mystery.
But one thing was becoming clear, Orion’s arrival had exposed her. Her careful life sheltered from the world was slipping fast beneath her feet.
Charlotte placed Diana on a shelf in the library. Then she poured herself a glass of gin and sat down on the couch, still unshowered after three days.
She looked up at her father’s portrait over the mantel. He had rusty colored hair and sported a several-day scruff on his square chin, but the painter had still managed to make him look regal. This was his dream, really. To have a ranch in the African countryside. To have a library full of first-edition books and a bar for his friends.
She had adopted it as her own when he died, never really knowing why. He wasn’t that great of a father, she would remind herself. He hadn’t been around when she needed him. She had built a life honoring a misplaced devotion, and now that Orion was taken away, her life here all seemed so petty and childish.
“I have considered the possibilities and believe Michael is going to be taken to the Citadel,” Diana’s voice broke the silence.
The actress sipped her glass. Of course he is, she thought bitterly. The Citadel.
She was an adept planner. She excelled at thinking through her options, putting together people she needed, and charging headfirst at ambitious goals. But who was there to help her rescue a criminal from the world’s most notorious prison?
“Diana, did Orion have any friends that could help us?”
The Echo Chamber Page 16