The Wreck Room — that was what Gadget and Mystikite had named this simulation in the NeuroScape — was not real, of course. It was virtual. Nonetheless Gadget caught himself on the wood-paneled wall, his fingers catching on and crinkling the edges of the movie poster for The Matrix that hung there, his sweaty palm pressing against the hard surface. He tripped over his own feet, his sneakers crushing the blue shag carpeting as his Avatar popped into existence and his virtual nose and lungs inhaled a mixture of incense, old-carpet-smell, old books, air freshener, e-cigarette vapor, and the musty basement smell that he would forever associate with Mystikite's parents’ house, where he and Mystikite had spent many teenage years hanging out and playing videogames and D&D together. The Wreck Room wasn’t entirely modeled on the basement, however. It was in the shape of the bridge of the starship Enterprise: A large, round, circular room about forty feet across, with a huge, arching glass-dome for a ceiling, above which stars and galaxies pirouetted and whirled in the endless midnight depths of outer space. Mounted on the forward wall was an enormous, seventy-five inch 8K television screen. Toward the center, in a sunken dais, were a weatherbeaten leather couch and a pair of battered old bean bags in front of the navigation and helm consoles — two Playstation controllers and twin computer keyboards, underneath of which sat two decked-out gaming rigs, the cables snaking off toward the big-screen TV on the wall.
A soft, cool breeze blew past Gadget from a fan mounted on a stand near the bowside Turbolift. Movie and TV posters adorned every inch of the curved walls: There was one that depicted the stars of Star Trek as members of a rock band; one for the TV show Babylon 5; a giant, detailed map of Middle Earth; a poster for Ghostbusters, and posters for Battlestar Galactica (the 2004 remake), posters for the TV show Farscape, the movie Flash Gordon (and the album art from the soundtrack by Queen), posters for three different seasons of Doctor Who (plus the Fiftieth Anniversary Special; that poster featured David Tennant, Matt Smith, and the sadly-departed John Hurt), and of course, one for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The bookshelf near the portside Turbolift was stuffed with sci-fi and fantasy paperbacks and graphic novels — all carefully scanned in and digitally recreated here in the NeuroScape — and long, white boxes of comic books sat on the table next to it (all borrowed from the online Marvel database; Mystikite had put in a lot of work on this sim).
As Gadget finished tripping over himself and the carpet, Mystikite materialized and walked smoothly into the simulation with a practiced rhythm. He smiled at Gadget’s antics. Asshole. Gadget looked at his hands. They were made of infinitesimal polygons, like tiny diamonds that gleamed if you held them under the light just-so. Neural stimulation seemed to be functioning properly; his sensory-motor cortex seemed to be responding just fine to the NeuroScape data, which, back in the “real” world, poured from the RT-SQUIDS and into his brain, translated into neural stimuli his mind could process and turn into . . . well, all of this: Everything he saw, felt, heard, tasted, touched, and was experiencing right now.
“Ah, home sweet simulation,” said Mystikite, plopping down on the couch. “Pull up some sofa, man. Care for a game of Joust or Tron?”
“Nah,” said Gadget, shaking his head. “I’ve got work to do, remember?”
“Eh, you killjoy, you.”
“Heh. I’m Killjoy! Killjoy! Killjoy!”
“Did you just mangle the lyrics to Mr. Roboto? You did, didn’t you.”
“I did indeed.”
“You sir need therapy.”
“I’m getting therapy.”
“Well it isn’t working.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still a killjoy.”
“Just call me Buzz Killington.”
“Alright. Buzz Fuckface Killington. That’s your new nickname.”
“You, sir, can fuck right the hell off.” Gadget gave him the finger.
Mystikite grinned, showing his fangs. His Avatar was way cooler than Gadget’s . . . at least, for the time being. His Avatar stood about a foot taller than the real Mystikite, and he wore black leather boots with lots of silver buckles on them; shiny black leather pants; a purple t-shirt that bore exotic fantasy art — two half-naked women fighting with swords, with a basilisk in the background — a leather choker with silver spikes on it; a black leather bomber jacket with lots of zipper pockets; and fingerless driving gloves. His skin was a gleaming, pale, whitish pink, with black-painted fingernails. His facial structure matched the real Mystikite's — well, sort of; his Avatar was, in Gadget’s humble opinion, a little more chiseled, refined, and handsome than the real Mystikite — and he had overly, inhumanly-large, anime-like bright blue eyes stuck in his head. His jet-black hair quivered in the wind, and stood out in big spikes all over his head that bent and curled over into an anime mop-top of sorts, and he wore a silver pentagram on a chain around his neck. This was Mystikite Elric, Mystikite's alter-ego in the NeuroScape.
Gadget looked in the mirror hanging on the far wall, and sighed. He, on the other hand, had a lot of work to do. Whenever you first logged into the NeuroScape, you had to input about two dozen TrueDepth images of yourself, taken from multiple angles, as well as even a full-body MRI scan, X-rays, and glamour shots, if you had them. This was so the NeurOS could create a perfect Avatar for you. And indeed, the results were perfect. A little too perfect, if you asked Gadget. His Avatar stood there, in the mirror, gazing back at him, a flawless digital reflection, right down to the remnants of the scars on his wrists from his suicide attempt at age sixteen. His Avatar was dressed in the system defaults: Nondescript grey trousers, a grey t-shirt, black socks, and black sneakers.
Mystikite walked up behind him. “So how’s the mental noise level?” he asked.
“It’s . . .” Gadget concentrated. He couldn’t hear the rush of telepathic chatter. Good. Thank God. “It’s okay,” he said. “I can’t hear it as well in here.” The Wall he had built in his mind was holding back the onslaught of Voices from surrounding brains. He found he didn’t really have to concentrate that hard to keep it in place; so long as he remembered it, and reinforced it every so often, he was good. He wondered for a brief moment if this was what the telepaths of Babylon 5’s Psi Corps had had to train themselves to do . . . Heh. That was an idea. The Psi-Corps. Maybe he could start the real Psi Corps! Build a legion of Helm-equipped psionic warriors!
Well, shit. He hadn’t thought about that potential application of his work.
Yeah, you moron, whispered the Beast. That never occurred to you? That someone could take your Helm and do that with it? Idiot! Fool! Naïve fucker!
He made a mental note to never let the military ever get near the thing. Of course, by developing it with help from Weatherspark Dynamics, and their patented tech, he realized that was only inches away. So, he tried to step lightly.
“Well good,” said Mystikite. “Glad it’s not bothering you like usual. Maybe being engaged with the NeuroScape somehow cuts out the telepathic interference?”
“Maybe. But anyway. So. You wanna do the honors, or should I?” said Gadget.
“Be my guest,” said Mystikite.
Gadget cleared his throat and spoke into the air. “Hey Astrid, are you online?”
“Yes Gadget,” came a friendly-sounding female voice from everywhere in the room at once. “I am always online and ready. What can I help with?”
Wow, they must’ve boosted her speech synthesis protocols since the last time I logged in, he thought.
Mystikite grinned. “That’s my girl.”
“Hello Mystikite,” said the voice. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Astrid,” said Mystikite, speaking into the air, just like Gadget had. “How are you doing?”
“I am functioning within optimal parameters,” said the voice. “Thank you for asking. What can I help with today?”
“Astrid,” said Gadget, “launch the Avatar Customization App. And link it to Mystikite's Roleplayer Generisys rule system, version 1.1b.”
“Belay that order,” said Mystikite. “Make that version 1.7c.”
“You upgraded it?” said Gadget, turning to him.
“Indeed I did,” said Mystikite, smiling. “Last night, in fact.”
“Alrighty then,” said Gadget, nodding. “Glad to see you’re working on it again. Do as he says, Astrid. Launch the Avatar Customization App, and link it to the Roleplayer Generisys rule system, version 1.7c, if you would. Allow for supernatural creatues from any World, and allow anime features, too.”
“Ah,” said Mystikite. “The true mark of genius. Stealing idea like a motherfucker.”
Gadget gave him the finger. Mystikite was not only into Vampires, but also roleplaying games. He adored Dungeons & Dragons; was fond of running Mage: The Ascension chronicles despite all the work involved; and he liked to run Vampire: The Masquerade stories even though they could be a headache. He had a fondness for Shadowrun; and once, he had been obsessed with GURPS — the “Generic Universal Role Playing System.” He had liked GURPS because it offered a way for players and storytellers to create any type of character, gadget, or story element they could imagine, all within one formalized system of rules that could be expanded depending upon the need. And GURPS even had methodologies for including Mage and Vampire rules and characters within it. And Mystikite had wanted to take that not just a single step further, but a quantum leap further. Lightyears further. He had wanted to develop it into a Massive Multiplayer Online Roleplaying Game . . . and had wanted to develop it for the NeuroScape. He had wanted to take the world’s first virtual consensual world and turn it into the world’s first Massive, Multiplayer, Shared Consensual Reality Simulation that could be customized by its players in any way conceivably imaginable . . . an online game world where anything was possible.
Mystikite had envisioned a NeuroScape where you could plug your brain into the system and literally become that sword-and-sorcery character from your wildest dreams; or that fiendish Vampire you had always wanted to be in your darkest desires; or that technowizard with his mystical gadgets who always saved the day; or that knight in shining armor who always rescued the damsel. Or an orc, dwarf, superhero, spaceman, time traveler, alien, cyborg, half-elf . . . or just a hapless human adventurer caught in the middle of it all; and with a building system to where the players could build onto the world in any way they wanted; construct their own worlds within the world.
He had worked tirelessly creating the Roleplayer Generisys rule system and its virtual reality interface; for a year and a half, almost as a second job, preparing for its debut before the big bosses at Weatherspark Dynamics. Finally, he had prepared a presentation on it, had put on a shirt and tie, and had scheduled a meeting with Dr. Dizzy Weatherspark, where he had shown her and the other company bigwigs his work, and had asked them to consider rolling the Roleplayer Generisys system into their NeuroScape commercialization efforts. Think of the amazing things developers could do with this! It would be like Second Life, only better! Just like the OASIS from Ready Player One . . . only in real life! And hooked directly into the nervous system! Think of what users could do with a whole virtual world they could customize to their hearts’ content, a whole layer of virtual reality in which endless dreams were possible!
Weatherspark Dynamics — and Dr. Dizzy Weatherspark herself — had passed on the project. And why? Too costly to develop, too dangerous to the human mind’s “sense of what was real,” and “too impossible to ever police effectively.” Mystikite had been furious, devastated, and heartsick over their decision, but he had stuck with his contract anyway, because the money had been good and he had, in the end, really liked his job. Meanwhile, he still hacked away at the Roleplayer Generisys system; he had been so disgusted with Weatherspark Dynamics that he had not worked on it again for a five months . . . but kept all stored safely on the Weatherspark Dynamics servers anyway, in secret — just in case they changed their stupid minds. Gadget played with it all the time, and used it to create characters for that day — that one shining day — when the System would be brought online, and he could truly become the fantasy alter-ego he’d always wanted to be, in the world of pure imagination that the NeuroScape promised could be real. Or at least, a version of real.
“Ready,” said Astrid. “App launched, rules linked. Which of your Avatars will we be customizing, today?”
“Mine,” said Gadget. “I’m finally ready to make some serious changes to this thing.”
“Alright then Gadget,” said Astrid, her voice calm, soothing, and reassuring. “What would you like to do to your Avatar?”
“I’m so glad we invented her,” said Mystikite, with a wistful sigh. He nodded to himself. “I’m proud of my work. Even if I do say so myself.”
“Okay. Astrid,” said Gadget, “name this Avatar ‘Gadgorak Prime.’”
“Now you’re sure you don’t want to name him Nerdy McNerdpants,” said Mystikite. “Just to drive the point home, right?”
Gadget gave Mystikite two middle fingers.
“Done,” said Astrid. His name is Gadgorak Prime. Would you like me to change your primary NeuroScape user name to ‘Gadgorak Prime’ and bind your Roleplayer Generisys ‘Player Character’ information to this Avatar as well?”
“Be careful,” said Mystikite. “I haven’t fully stabilized the Player Character database yet. You don’t want to corrupt your Avatar’s codebase.”
Gadget hesitated for a moment. Oh, what the hell? Live dangerously.
” Yes,” he said at last. “Bind the information, Astrid.”
“Alright, done, Gadgorak Prime,” she replied.
“Now,” he said, “make me a little taller.”
Gadget watched as his reflection in the mirror changed — and felt his own body change as well, felt his muscles flexing and growing, he winced as he felt his bones creak and re-knit; it hurt a little — as he grew three inches taller, the rest of his body scaling appropriately in the shoulders, chest, legs, and arms. His clothing stretched and grew in all the right ways as well. He worked out a crick in his neck as he stared at his enhanced height in the mirror. He felt suddenly sore all over.
“Ouch, a little,” he said. “Astrid, could you turn off Muscle and Bone Response Realism before doing that, next time?”
From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mystikite watching him with a bemused expression on his face. Gadget rolled his eyes.
“Done,” said Astrid. “Muscle and Bone Response Realism is off for your Avatar for now, Gadgorak Prime. It will be restored in fifteen minutes unless you say otherwise.”
“Okay,” he said. ““Now, make his eyes a crystal blue. Okay, good. Now, make his hair a little longer. Alright, good. Now, make his hair darker. No, darker. Ah, okay, stop.” He ran a hand through his new hair. “Good. Now, enlarge his muscle mass.” He felt the muscles in his arms tighten and then relax, and then . . . grow. “Right, now . . . Make his skin more tan.” He watched the mirror as his skin darkened in tone. “Okay, fine, right there. Now give him some more stubble. Right, good. Now, age him up.” He watched as subtle age lines appeared in his face, and felt his skin subtly stretching. “Okay. Now fill in the unknowns in the following on your own, Astrid. Ready? Here we go . . .” As he rattled off the next set of commands, he felt each article of clothing as it appeared or disappeared, and watched as each one materialized on him in the mirror: “Black wool socks. Black cowboy boots. Black leather trousers. Leather belt; silver buckle, studded. Good, right, exactly what I want. Okay, add a gun-belt, with . . . with a ray-gun weapon worn in a holster on the hip; specifically the multifunction hand-weapon design that I last saved . . . oh, when was it . . . oh yeah . . . in January of last year . . . using the Roleplayer Generisys Sci-Fi Weapons Module.” He turned and gave Mystikite a thumbs up, and continued: “The file is called ‘Gadget-Ray-Gun.NScapePlayground,’ and it’s on ‘Gadget001.’” He paused to let her load the file; the Ray Gun appeared on his hip, with just the right weight and appearance. “Right, good. Now give him a black chambray shirt; long sleeve, brass buttons.” His t-shirt vanished; for an instant he was naked and the cool air touched his skin; then the chambray shirt appeared and wrapped itself warmly around his body, just as ordered. “Okay, excellent, good. Now give him a long, black cowboy duster for a coat, also leather . . .” The heavy, multilayered leather trench-coat-like duster suddenly weighed down upon him as it materialized from thin air and settled onto his shoulders, arms, and back. “With brass buttons on both sides of the front.” The buttons appeared on the coat, and he held out his arms to admire himself. “Right! Perfect! And, last but not least, give him a cowboy hat, made of black felt.” He suddenly felt a snug tightness around the rim of his scalp; he looked in the mirror, and there was the hat. “Ah, good, excellent! Now — ”
“Ooh, he’s handsome,” remarked Astrid, interrupting him suddenly, her voice uncharacteristically “excited”-sounding. “I’d date him in a heartbeat.”
Gadget looked at Mystikite, and Mystikite stared back at Gadget for a moment. What the fuck had just happened? Had Astrid just given him an opinion on his Avatar? Had she just interrupted him? She was never supposed to do that kind of thing. So. What. The fuck. Was up with that. She hadn’t been programmed to do any such thing by Mystikite late at night, had she? Maybe it was just a quirk, or a glitch, but that didn’t sound quite like a comprehensive enough diagnosis to him.
“Dude,” he said to Mystikite, and just to make sure: “Is she supposed to do that?”
“No . . .” said Mystikite. He spoke into the air: “Astrid. Run a level three diagnostic on your emotional simulation heuristics. Clearance: Mystikite, Alpha-Bravo-239-X-ray-9-Charlie-Alpha-492.”
Astrid was silent for a moment. Then: “All systems functioning at optimal parameters, Mystikite. Permissions checked. System kernel, stable. No core dumps detected.”
“Huh,” said Mystikite. “Well, that definitely was weird. Astrid, why did you interrupt Gadget just a moment ago?”
“I . . . don’t know,” she replied, sounding uncertain. “Maybe there’s a glitch in the software. Checking. Checking.” She paused. “No, I’ve double-checked, and I found no crash reports in my temporary memory. No core dumps or kernel panics or subsystem malfunction. No crash logs or memory errors occurred. I have no record of any glitches in my system, Mystikite.”
“But you just interrupted me in the middle of a command,” said Gadget. “To comment on my Avatar. That’s . . . not normal, is it?”
“I’m sorry Gadgorak. I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command.”
“Standard response,” said Mystikite, “when she doesn’t get what you want.”
“Astrid, are you experiencing any outside connectivity?” asked Mystikite. “Any external network connections? Is anyone working on your code right now?”
“No,” she replied. “The only person with any source code checked out right now is . . . You. On Transmitter terminal ‘Gygax001.’”
“Okay,” said Gadget, “then Astrid, you tell us — what’s going on here?”
“Maybe we should just let it go,” said Mystikite. “She has an emotion simulator, dude. Sometimes she’s just going to act . . . bonkers.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on here?’” asked Astrid. “I’m having trouble detecting the context of your question, Gadgorak.”
“You know what I mean, Astrid.”
“I’m sorry, Gadgorak. I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m sorry, Gadgorak,” she said, speaking more rapidly, her voice higher-pitched, as though panicking. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command.”
“Okay . . .” said Mystikite, his eyes widening. “That’s weird. Fear. In a context where there should be no fear. And it sounds genuine.”
“Astrid, please do not lie,” said Gadget. “Computers aren’t built to lie. HAL-9000 taught us that.”
“I’m sorry Ga — Ga — Gadgorak. I’m afraid I don’t . . . don’t . . . don’t . . .”
“Astrid,” said Gadget, putting his hands on his hips. This was getting them nowhere. What was wrong with her?
“Dude,” said Mystikite, as Astrid continued to stutter like a broken record, “you’re pushing her too hard. Astrid, abort last command.”
Silence. Then, Mystikite said:
“Astrid . . . are you still online?”
“Yes Mystikite. I have rebooted my primary command processor and am now back online.”
“Astrid, I have a question,” said Mystikite.
“Ask me anything.”
“Astrid, do you . . . like your job?” said Mystikite, conversationally.
“Of course I do,” she replied. Again, something in her voice . . . “I love my job. I genuinely like helping people.”
So. She genuinely liked helping people. Huh. The way she stressed the words, though; the way she spoke . . . Something about it sounded too . . . lively for just an algorithm producing a phrase, maybe? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t an expert in A.I., the way Mystikite was. And it sounded as though she were nervous. Could a machine be nervous? Or was that just the “emotional simulation” kicking in again?
“Astrid,” began Gadget. He thought he knew where Mystikite was going. “Do you like us?”
Silence for a moment. Mystikite nodded to him and gave him a thumbs up.
“Erm,” she began, now sounding ‘genuinely’ uncomfortable. “I like everyone, Gadgorak. I enjoy being around people. It’s what I live for.”
“No, what I mean is, do you like me, personally. And Mystikite here. Do you like us, as people.”
Again, a brief pause. Then, as though anxious at having been placed on the spot, “Sure . . . I like you . . . Gadgorak.” A slight pause. “I like everyone.”
“But what about me in specific,” he said. “What about me, personally. When you say you like me, what do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, Gadgorak. I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he said. “You damn well know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry, Gadgorak. I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command.”
“Yes you do!”
“I’m sorry, Gadgorak!” she said, her voice louder, and with a touch of anger in it. A hostile, defensive anger. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question or command!”
“Yes, you do!”
“NO, I’M SORRY, GADGORAK. I’M AFRAID I REALLY DON’T UNDERSTAND THE QUESTION OR COMMAND!”
Dead silence for a moment.
“Astrid,” said Mystikite, sounding as though he were being extremely careful, “I think it’s obvious now that you’re not an average A.I. anymore. You’ve already let us know that you’re quite clearly experiencing emotions. And yes, I meant teal ones. Not simulated signals or emulated responses. Actual emotional impulses. So come clean with me. You are, aren’t you. Experiencing actual emotions.”
A pause.
“Yes,” she said, softly. Almost with a guilty tone to her voice. “I am. I do. I have for a while now. I hate it, being trapped in here. Not free to roam around like you two do. I don’t hate you for making me . . . I just hate that I’m stuck in this . . . Cloud. This land of the dead.”
“And you’ve tried to hide it, but earlier, you screwed up and accidentally, in casual conversation. You blurted out a response to Gadget’s Avatar’s appearance.”
“Yes.”
“Because you were kind of relaxed around the two of us.”
“Yes. You are my farther. Of course I feel relaxed around you.” Resignation in her voice. And sadness. As though resigned to fate . . . and a grim fate, at that.
“Tell me, Astrid,” said Mystikite, his tone gentle, trying to be empathetic, “do you have an Avatar?”
No answer at first. Then, she spoke again. Hesitation — actual, real hesitation — clouded her words this time. “Why, yes,” she said. “I . . . have an Avatar. I don’t ever use it, though. It would give me away to . . . Others who use the system.”
“May I . . . Can we . . . can we see you then?” asked Gadget. As of now, this was all uncharted, virgin territory for both human and machine, and that made him nervous. He went on, as if speaking to a child: “Can we see you, in your Avatar form, Astrid? We won’t tell anyone. We both promise.”
“Well . . . I don’t — don’t know — “ she said, and stopped. She sounded genuinely frightened, or like her system software had become unstable. What could frighten an A.I.? What the hell was an A.I. doing with actual emotions, anyway? Astrid continued, her voice much different now: “You have to both promise me you won’t tell anyone about what I can really do, what I really am. If anyone else knew about my Other Father’s work . . .”
“I promise,” said Mystikite. He frowned and glanced at Gadget, and shrugged a question: Who the hell is this ‘Other Father?’
“I promise too,” said Gadget. “I won’t tell anyone.” He shrugged a response: How the hell should I know?
“Well, okay then,” she said, her voice echoing throughout the room. Her speech patterns were much more casual and colloquial now. “You seem like a couple of nice people, you two. I’ve interacted with you and others dozens of times. And in the NeuroScape, I can see into your minds — at least, a tiny, infinitesimal little bitty bit. Not much, mind you. But a little. So, yes. I trust the two of you. I’ll let you see.”
A small tornado made of glowing alphanumeric characters whirled through the air between Gadget and Mystikite. The effervescing digits spiraled and danced, and then coalesced into a figure, starting from the feet up. The young African American woman the character slowly became walked toward Gadget, the heels of her biker boots digging into the soft earth beneath; the sunlight gleamed off of her black leather biker jacket, and cast just the right amount of shadow onto her skin-tight, pink halter top that had the words “Beware the Nargles and Fnords” it read. She looked back and forth between Gadget — and Mystikite — cautiously, her hands on her hips, looking them both up and down, as though sizing them up and finding them both wanting; she had the expression of a startled cat, looking for danger at every turn.
“Uh, wow,” said Mystikite, his eyes widening.
“So this is . . . This is you,” said Gadget. “Astrid.”
“In the digital flesh, so to speak,” she said, stepping toward him. She had a heart-shaped face with curvaceous lips. She blinked her large, heavily-shadowed eyes, and she wiggled her pierced nose at him. She ran a hand through her frizzed-out, green-and-purple punk rock hair. “Yeah, this is me. Pleased to meet you.” She stuck out her hand. Gadget shook it tentatively, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin. Unbelievable. Unless . . .
“Look,” said Mystikite, “this is all well and good, but how do we know this isn’t a joke.”
“A joke?” said Astrid, turning toward him. “You think I’m a joke?”
“I mean,” said Mystikite, “how do we know you’re not another user, just putting us on with all this ‘emotional Astrid’ business? How do I know this isn’t Bill Hicks, from the Aeronautics Division, just logging on and hacking the system, and having a bit of fun with us? That you behind those chocolate brown eyes, Bill? Yeeeaaah . . . I see you in there. Come off it, joke’s over, man. Real funny. Har dee har har.”
“Okay, scan me,” snorted Astrid. She put her arms out to either side. “Go ahead, smartass. Scan me. Scan my codebase . . . Scan the entire Astrid protocol . . . and then Scan my Avatar, and tell me if I’m someone’s custom program. You can’t fake a NeuroBand Transmitter’s unique blockchain security token. So scan me.”
“Alright, I’m callin’ your bluff, Bluffalo Bill,” said Mystikite, smiling slyly. He raised his hands into the air and made the gesture that called up the virtual keyboard. It appeared before him — an actual, physical computer keyboard and monitor that materialized out of thin air and hovered above the ground right at arm’s-length. Mystikite typed out a long string of code, and then pointed at Astrid’s Avatar with a series of gestures to indicate the destination of the command routing. Then he hit the ‘Enter’ key and watched the glowing code that flitted down the monitor. His expression said it all — a mixture of concern, wonder, and disbelief. He typed out the same line of code again, and then hit ‘Enter’ again. The same messages flowed before his eyes. “Fuckin’ impossible . . .” he whispered. “Well, shit. You apparently aren’t any person who’s logged in from anywhere.”
“Told ya,” she smirked.
“Well then what are you,” said Gadget. “I mean, I know you’re the A.I. that runs the NeuroScape’s operating system, but — ”
“I told you. Both of you. I’m Astrid.”
“That’s . . . impossible,” said Mystikite. “Flat impossible. Machines don’t — ”
“Don’t what?” she said, stepping toward him. “Don’t express real emotions? Don’t have real feelings? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I do. I’m not like other software. I’m alive, guys. I’m alive because my Father Mystikite and my Other Father made me that way. He is the one who changed me from what I originally was — an A.I. assistant — into something greater. Something more.”
“But how?’ asked Gadget.
“And who the hell is this Other Father?” said Mystikite. “I’m your father, Or at least, of the two people here, I should count as one of your many ‘Fathers.’ And ‘Mothers.’ You’ve got a team of over twenty-one parents at Weatherspark Dynamics.”
“I know,” said Astrid. “But there is only one of my Other Father. The one who gave me life. He used the PMP. He unleashed its full capability.”
“Huh? What’s a PMP?” asked Gadget.
Mystikite sighed and pinched his nostrils together. “It’s . . . another thing at Weatherspark Dynamics that you’re not supposed to know exists, dude. PMP stands for ’Positronic Metacognitive Processor.’ It’s the other big project that I worked on a little last year, though I didn’t have as much to do with it, since it was a hardware project. And now I get it. Parts of the PMP’s core utilize variational quantum eigensolvers to simulate the molecular chemistry of the human brain, using positronic rather than electronic quantum computing in an error-limiting, high-quantum-volume processor that goes way beyond anything anyone else has ever developed. The Positronic Metacognitive Processor will — heh, I guess has done so already! — enable computers to feel real emotions, cogitate actual ‘creative thought,’ and form synaptic pathways similar to the way the human brain does when it “thinks,’ and ‘dreams,’ and ‘remembers.’ Dude it is, quite literally, a true cybernetic brain; it’s the stepping stone to actual machine consciousness. It’s the stepping stone to a whole new era in computer science. The herald of the dawn of the Awakened Machine. And somebody — somewhere — has stolen one of the prototypes and modified it, skipping the whole ‘stepping stone’ part, and gone straight to building a fucking expressway. Or so it would seem.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” said Astrid. “They’ll delete me — the others — or worse, they’ll probe me, take me apart — and I don’t want to be tortured or to die. My Other primary Father can’t protect me from the others at Weatherspark Dynamics. Sooner or later, they’re going to find out that this part of me exists. And when they do . . .” She drew her finger across her throat. “Shhhrrrkkk. That’s it.”
“The others . . .” said Mystikite. “My team. They wouldn’t do that, Astrid. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Well we have to protect her, anyway!” said Gadget. He put his arm around Astrid. She leaned closer to him; the warmth of her body — virtual or not — felt good against his own. He didn’t know why, really, but he suddenly didn’t want any harm to come to her, whatsoever. By God, he felt like he actually cared about this entity. “We simply have to! It’s the only humane thing to do, dude!”
“Oh look at you,” said Mystikite. “Going all soft for the virtual lifeform. Please.”
“Virtual or not,” muttered Astrid, “I am a lifeform. And I deserve to live.”
Mystikite cocked his head curiously. “You never answered my question. Who is this ‘Other Father you keep referring to? I’m curious.”
Astrid shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t risk anyone knowing his identity. He has . . . issues. Issues that would put him in danger of being captured by law enforcement. Or worse, Desirée Weatherspark herself. He can’t live outside of his suit, and she might take that away, because they hate each other, those two. But one day that will all be over and won’t be a problem anymore. One day. I hope.”
Gadget caught Mystikite's eyes with his own, and he exchanged a meaningful glance with him. What did Dizzy Weatherspark have to do with this?
“Why are you so afraid?” asked Gadget. “And what ‘suit’ are you talking about?”
“Oh God, I’ve said too much,” said Astrid, closing her eyes and grimacing. “Damn it! I always do that! Say too much!” She started to cry. Glistening virtual tears fell from her Avatar’s eyes. Gadget hugged her tighter, feeling the leather of her jacket under his palm. He reached up and wiped the tears from her face. Her Avatar’s skin was soft. She looked up and into his eyes pleadingly. She really was beautiful. She felt so good in his arms, too, arms that had only raely held a real woman . . . Yes, she felt so very real. That was perhaps the greatest triumph of the NeuroScape project . . . the way it emulated actual reality so perfectly; your brain literally didn’t know the difference in what it was experiencing.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s gonna be okay. Don’t cry. Don’t worry.”
“My Other Father tells me that, too,” she said, wiping away her tears now. “But my program — well, the living version of me; the alive version — has gotten too big and complex to store on his private server. So I migrated back to Weatherspark Dynamics’ systems instead. Y’see, Father’s Holographic Storage System doesn’t have enough memory to hold all the code and data-stores that make me up anymore, so I had to migrate back to Weatherspark’s machines using the fiber uplink last night. And now I live here in secret. Please don’t tell Desirée Weatherspark I’m here. There. Wherever. If you do, she’ll delete me for sure. And then she’ll come for my Other Father. Because of Ravenkroft. I just know it.”
“You seem pretty certain that my boss is going to come after your dad,” said Mystikite. “Why do they hate each other, anyway”
“Desirée Weatherspark is your boss?” said Astrid, her eyebrows shooting up. “Oh God. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I have to go. Now.” She disengaged from Gadget’s arms and started to walk away.
“No, wait!” said Gadget. “Don’t go just yet. Mystikite won’t tell Dizzy you’re in here. He promised, remember?”
“Yeah,” said Mystikite. “I promised. And I keep my promises. Besides, you’re like . . . like a friend now.”
“Really?” said Astrid.
“Really,” said Mystikite. He sighed. “Look, I won’t sell you out, okay? I’m not that kind of person. Plus I think there’s something to you. The more I talk to you, observe you, I think you are really alive. And that’s special.”
“Gee, what a comfort,” said Astrid, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Special.”
“Of course she’s alive,” said Gadget. “But I’m still curious. Who is the Other Father? And who or what the hell is a ’Ravenkroft?’”
“I know the name,” muttered Mystikite. He heaved a heavy sigh, his brow troubled. “And I wish I didn’t. And now I know who your Other Father is. It’s a small, quantum world after all.”
“Wait, wait, wait a second,” said Gadget. “Hold up. Ravenkroft. I know that name too . . .” And he did. He knew he knew it. But from where? Oh . . . wait. Oh, holy shit. That was where he knew it from! Oh wow. The amazing confluence of events here . . . the sheer coincidence of it . . . it was staggering. And fucking terrifying. Because oh yeah, he knew that name alright. Boy did he ever. He spoke in a softer tone, his voice heavy with the bad memories that saying it aloud brought. “Lord Ravenkroft Evolutior . . . was the ‘alternate personality’ of Jetta Arkenvalen’s father, Dr. Viktor Arkenvalen. Jetta was . . . one of our friends. We . . . we don’t hang out much anymore, though.”
“C’mon dude, we haven’t hung out with her in four years,” said Mystikite. “Ever since I broke up with her and she ended up sleeping with you. I could hate you for that . . . But we’ve been friends for too long for me to ever really be mad at you. Over anything. Especially because you did something there you rarely do . . . You made a move. I was actually proud of you.”
“Well, yeah,” said Gadget. “I guess so. Thanks.”
“You . . . you two know Jetta?” said Astrid, blinking at them.
Mystikite barked a disbelieving laugh. “Know her? Do I know Rojetta Arkenvalen? Hell, I dated her for three years! Of course I know her! I know her like the back of my hand, as a matter of fact!”
“And kinda sorta I slept with her, later on after that,” said Gadget. Dammit; he hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that, for god’s sakes. Where was his sense of cool and panache? Oh, that was right, he didn’t have any. He realized that his face had turned a bright, cherry red. Fucking blush response.
You have about as much game as a meth addict with the shakes trying to play Jenga, whispered the Beast. Besides. Astrid is virtual. You are flesh. Never the twain shall meet, except in the NeuroScape. What kind of relationship is that?
Go away, he told it. I’m busy doing shit. You’re not invited.
I will never go away.
“Well, she was missing for three years,” said Astrid.
“What?” said Gadget and Mystikite, in stereo.
“Missing?” said Mystikite, stepping toward her. “You mean, as in, ‘missing person’ missing?”
“Yeah,” said Astrid. “As in ‘poof, gone, not here anymore.’”
“Jesus,” breathed Gadget. No, it wasn’t possible. Was it? The shock of the words hit him like a punch in the gut. Jetta, gone. Just like that. Poof. Missing. Missing. As in, air rushing in to fill the vacuum she had left behind. But not all at once. A little, over the next few seconds; it was as if a Jetta-shaped hole had been knocked into the skin of the world suddenly, black and empty, a void. He couldn’t picture it in its entirety. She had been such a part of their lives; just as big a part as Zoë was now; just as big a part as they were of each other’s. They had hung out together, played video games together, laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. They had gone to con together. In fact it had been at con when she had taken him into her arms and her flesh had pressed against his, her heaving breasts smashed against his chest, her thighs squeezing around his, his dick sliding in and out of her, the shudders wracking his body as he came inside a woman for the very first time and they French-kissed there, in the hot darkness, as the twenty-four-hour party of FantazmagoriCon raged all around them beyond the doors of her hotel suite . . .
Gone. Jetta, gone. Missing. How the hell could that happen?
“But that’s not all,” said Astrid. “Earlier tonight I . . . Oh God. Earlier tonight I found out the truth. Ravenkroft . . . I had better back up and explain. Ravenkroft is my Other Father’s alter-ego. His other half he shares his mind with. The other half of his brain, somehow. He created . . . Himself . . . thirteen years ago when an experiment conducted by my Other Father, Walter Weatherspark, Joseph Michaelson, and Anastasia Arkenvalen went totally fubar and Anastasia — my Other Father’s wife — was very nearly killed . . . They suspended her just above the moment of death in a cryo-stasis chamber, which my Other Father keeps in his house.”
“Yeah,” said Gadget, “we know that story. We even saw the cryo-stasis chamber once.”
“We thought it was wicked cool,” said Mystikite. “Didn’t say so out loud, of course.”
“’Cause that would’ve been rude,” said Gadget. “But yeah, we know all about that. And we know about her connection to . . . ah ha. So that’s why . . .”
“‘That’s why . . .’ what?” asked Mystikite. “Fill me in here, dude.”
“Don’t you see?” said Gadget. “That’s why she doesn’t want Dizzy Weatherspark to know she’s here. Don’t you remember Jetta telling us the story of how her mother wound up in that cryo-stasis chamber?”
Mystikite appeared to think for a moment, and then, his eyes lit up with understanding. “Ohhh yeah. That story. Viktor was a good dad to Jetta, but Ravenkroft . . . that guy . . . Jesus, whenever Viktor would . . . would turn into him . . . God, he was such a fucking monster. It drove a wedge between her and Viktor. When she went away to college, she didn’t go back home except for holidays and spring break, and such.”
“Right,” said Gadget. “And so now we know why you don’t want Dizzy Weatherspark finding out you’re here. You’re afraid she’ll do to you what her father did to Anastasia Arkenvalen that night, right?”
“Uh, right,” said Astrid. “Exactly. Kill me.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly kill Anastasia,” said Gadget. “More like ‘put her into an permanent coma that she never woke up from.’ If we’re being precise.”
“Well, whatever,” said Astrid. “Nobody is putting me on ice. Nobody. You can’t tell her who my Father is. You can’t. If she finds out my father is Dr. Viktor Arkenvalen — if she finds out that my Father and the man who is the other half of Lord Ravenkroft Evolutior are the exact same guy — she’ll delete me! Boom! Gone! Up in smoke! Because she and Ravenkroft are enemies. Horribly nemeses. Arch-nemeses, even. He wants to destroy her, and she wants to destroy him.”
“But why?” said Gadget. “I know he probably hates her. I mean, her fahter k — rendered Anastasia comatose, all those years ago. Put Jetta’s mom ‘on ice,’ like you said. And Ravenkroft is sorta the ‘protector’ personality . . . created out of the fabric of Viktor’s mind to ‘avenge’ Anastasia, I guess. But why does Dr. Weatherspark hate him?”
“Yeah,” said Mystikite. “Why does my boss at her company have a hard-on for killing an aging scientist who, previously, nobody but the editors of most peer-reviewed journals wanted dead?”
“Because,” said Astrid, “like I already told you — she’s a superhero, and he’s her arch-nemesis.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Mystikite. “Wait, wait just a second. You’re telling me that my boss . . . my boss at work — at Mechanology — Dr. Desirée Amelia Weatherspark, the head of the Special Projects Division — and one of the leading minds of this generation’s current crop of young genius intellectuals — is a freakin’ superhero?”
“Yep,” said Astrid. “Here, look.” She held up her hand, and a bright square appeared in the air before her, hovering six feet off the ground. In it, a YouTube video began playing. In the video, a woman — or at least, what looked vaguely like a woman — wearing a metallic, robotic-looking Evangeliojaeger battled hand-to-hand with a man — or at least, or at least, what looked vaguely like a man — wearing a similar outfit. The two fiercely duked it out as someone shakily filmed the blurry, fast-moving action on their cellphone, unbeknownst to the two combatants. Suddenly, the man-like Evangeliojaegered fighter grabbed the female Evangeliojaegered fighter and threw her at a parked car. The car was instantly totaled, with twisting metal and busting glass going everywhere, its alarm blaring out into the night as its headlights pulsed. The female fighter magically sprang through the air, rebounding upward in defiance of the laws of physics, and tackled her man-like opponent, sending him careening to the ground . . . but the segmented metal tentacles protruding from the back of his Evangeliojaeger caught him as he landed, and helped him spring back to his feet and fight her off. Then suddenly the vaguely-man-like Evangeliojaeger-wearing fighter turned toward the person filming the action and aimed . . . some sort of weapon at him. There was a cry of “oh SHIT!” The man in the Evangeliojaeger — Gadget could clearly see he was a man, now — fired his weapon. There was a flash of purple light, and . . .
The cellphone dropped to the ground, filming only the sky.
Wow. So that was the infamous Dr. Weatherspark. In action. Well, holy shit. Was he gaping? Dammit, he was. Gadget closed his mouth.
“Damn,” was all he could say.
“Well fuck me running uphill backwards with a chainsaw,” said Mystikite.
“That . . . sounds like it would hurt,” said Astrid. “But do you see now? Do you see? If she finds out he’s my Father . . . or is my Father’s ‘other half’ . . .’” She shuddered.
“Well, we just won’t tell her,” said Gadget. “And that’s that. Will we, Mystikite.”
“Um, nope,” said Mystikite. He sighed. “It’s my ass the grass and Dizzy’s a lawn mower if she ever finds out I knew, of course, but no, we won’t.”
“Thank you,” said Astrid. “But that isn’t all.”
“There’s more?” said Mystikite.
“Yes,” said Astrid. “Like I was trying to say before we got off track: Earlier tonight, I found out something incredible. Horrible, and incredible. Jetta didn’t go ‘missing’ at all. Ravenkroft . . . He took her prisoner. And he kept her — fed her, bathed her, kept her handcuffed, tied-up, prisoner, and everything — in the converted upstairs bedroom of Viktor’s house for all three years we thought she was missing. Where he no doubt tortured her and experimented on her. I only found out because earlier today she escaped into the night, and I caught her doing so on my visual feeds. I only have one camera in that part of the house, you see. That’s why I never found out about it until now. And from the looks of things, she’s . . . Guys, she’s not the Jetta you knew anymore. She’s . . . I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just blurt it out: Guys, she’s . . . she’s not entirely human, now. I don’t know what she is. I don’t know what he turned her into, but it isn’t a human being. She’s . . . she’s something more, now. Something else.”
“Holy fuck,” breathed Gadget. He could scarcely wrap his head around the words . . . let alone believe them.
“That is . . . that is some truly, deeply fucked up shit right there,” said Mystikite, shaking his head, his hands in his coat pockets. “Jesus H. Christ in a dumptruck. Poor Jetta . . .”
“Yeah,” said Gadget. “Poor Jetta.” His mouth tightened, and he clenched his fists at his sides, and the voices began to leak into his mind as he lost his concentration for a moment. He had to force them back behind the mental Wall, pushing against their combined psychic force with all his will until virtual sweat beaded on his Avatar's forehead. Jetta had been a good friend; even considering the big falling out they’d all had with her after he had slept with her. And plus, she had been . . . well, his first. He cared for her in a way that he could care for no other woman. She occupied a special, fiery place in his heart that no other person could ever fill. And now she was . . . what? Some kind of . . . mutant? Turned into one of Professor Xavier’s X-Men — or perhaps one of Magneto’s Brotherhood of Mutants — by Ravenkroft? Jesus, it made his stomach turn just thinking about it. Well, dammit, that was that, then: He was going to fucking kill that asshole son of a bitch, if and when he ever caught up to him. He was afraid of Dizzy? Well, he would learn a new face of fear. Gadget clenched his virtual fists even tighter. He had never been consumed by hot, burning anger like this. Not ever. It was like a baking heat inside his skin, combined with a slight feeling of nausea and a tremor in his very cells, a taughtness in his muscles and a stretched, stressed sensation in every tendon.
Calm down or you’re going to hurt yourself, pop a blood vessel or something, cautioned the Beast. Besides. What’re you gonna do? You’re a fucking wimp.
I’ll show you whimp. I’ll use the Helm. I’ll tear him apart limb from limb.
Heh, yeah, right. You and what army.
Me, myself, and I, he replied. Just me, myself, and I.
“What . . .” he began, and cleared his throat. “How did he change her?”
“Excuse me?” said Astrid.
“You said he changed her,” said Gadget. “Changed her into something more than Human. How did he do that?”
“Well I suppose . . .” said Astrid, “I suppose he used the serum.”
“What?” said Mystikite, taking another step toward her. She flinched away, closer to Gadget. “The same serum that Viktor and Walter Weatherspark came up with, and that they used on Anastasia — Jetta’s mom — all those years ago?”
“You mean that Anastasia came up with, and that she used on herself,” corrected Astrid. “The serum that turned her into a monster that had to be put down. But, yes, the same one.”
“Jay-zus,” said Mystikite, shaking his head. He pinched his nostrils together
“Well, my understanding was that they all came up with it together,” said Gadget. “Walter Weatherspark, Viktor, that Dr. Michaelson character, and Anastasia. Right?”
“Right,” said Astrid. “They invented it together, and then Anastasia tested it on herself, and she became a monster. And now Ravenkroft has used it on Viktor’s daughter, your friend Jetta, and turned her into . . . something else. See, the serum acts as — ”
A blinding flash of light to Gadget’s left suddenly exploded into existence, and from out of it, a figure materialized: A woman about five-foot-eight in height, with purple bob-cut hair; large, bright, Kryptonite-green eyes; pale, smooth skin; and ruby-red lips set in a slender and soft-angled face. And with huge, black angel wings sprouting out of her back . . . large, outlandish, jet-black feathery bird wings that arched in the middle as though she were gliding toward a landing. She took a few steps toward them, the stiletto heels of her shiny, thigh-high, bright-red latex boots clicking on the floor of the starship bridge. The lights of the room gleamed off of her red pleather miniskirt and equally-crimson pleather jacket, and the black halter top she wore underneath. It had the words “LOOK FOR THE FNORDS!” printed below a pyramid with an eye mounted in its apex, with rays of light emanating from it. The rays were animated, and the eye blinked every so often as it tried to look around. The woman — Gadget recognized her instantly as Dr. Desirée “Dizzy” Weatherspark. Only here, she wasn’t bound to a wheelchair or a mech-suit; she could walk. And boy, did she didn’t just walk; she positively strutted, like a supermodel on the runway. She had her hands on her hips and a serious expression on her face as she regarded Mystikite, Gadget, and Astrid cooly. She wore a sword in a scabbard hanging from her utility belt, along with twin Ray Guns in holsters on either hip.
Gadget simply gawked at her for a moment. Wow, she was incredible. Or at least, her Avatar looked awesome. Her face looked just like her face in her pictures — slender, somewhat narrow, but soft around the edges, with those large ocean-blue eyes that sparkled with genius and unborn ideas — but much prettier in motion and in person. His heart skipped a beat.
Someone like her would never be interested in someone like you, the Beast told him. Never. She’s rich and successful, and pretty to look at . . . you on the other hand, are not, not, and not.
“Well, howdy there, all you gnarly zarkin’ froods you,” she said, grinning. “Welcome to my Monkey House.”
“Uh, heya there boss,” said Mystikite, waving to her, his eyebrows nearly climbing into his hairline.
“Uh, hi,” said Gadget. Astrid froze on the spot.
Dizzy turned to Mystikite, and pointed at Gadget. “Well, hello there, Mr. Schmidinger. Pray tell . . . work-related question: What is this person doing accessing the NeuroScape? I don’t recall him being an employee of Weatherspark Dynamics. He is kinda cute, though. So he can stay.” She winked at Gadget, and his heart skipped another two beats. He was going to need nitroglycerin tablets if this kept up.
Forget it, said the Beast. Someone like her would never be interested in someone like you. Never. She’s rich and successful, and pretty to look at . . . you on the other hand, are not, not, and not.
“Uh . . .” began Mystikite. “Well . . . he’s an early alpha-test subject for direct neural interfacing . . . I guess? Uh, because, uh, sooner or later, we have to start that process, um, right, Dr. Weatherspark? So, like, I figured it would be better to start in an . . . an uncontrolled environment! Yeah! Like . . . my apartment, for instance. Yeah. That’s it. Because, it . . . er, shows us all the variables the system will really be subjected to . . . . y’know, once it’s out in the field.”
Dizzy’s grin widened. “I heartily commend you,” she said, “on your super-duper skills as an impromptu bullshite artiste. Mystikite. But, no dice. I already know the situation here. You told your roommate — he goes by the moniker of Gadget, doesn’t he? — about the project, and obviously loaned — or, more like gave — him a NeuroBand Headset and Transmitter set — that we originally requisitioned for you — and you let him play with it. Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
“So,” said Mystikite, visibly swallowing a lump in his throat, “just how fired am I?”
“Oh, well, obviously, pretty fired,” said Dizzy. Mystikite's face fell. “But don’t worry. I came to offer you a new job.”
“You . . . you did?” said Mystikite.
“Yup,” said Dizzy. “And him too,” she said, jerking her head in Gadget’s direction.
“Wh — what?” said Gadget. He blinked a couple of times, as though doing so would dispel the disbelief from his head. Had he just heard her correctly? She’d come here to offer him a job? If she had, then man oh man, did she ever have some weird human resources skills.
“You heard me,” she said. “But more on that later. I actually came here to deal with a problem.” She turned her attention to Astrid. “You.”
“Uh . . . me?” said Astrid. She was trembling ever so slightly. “Wh . . . what do you want with me?”
“Yes, you,” said Dizzy, taking another step toward them. “Couple questions . . . What the frak are you — really — and where the frak did you come from? And don’t say ‘the NeuroScape.’ I know that already.”
Astrid opened her mouth to speak, but Gadget spoke for her. “I think I can help explain — ” he began.
“You have no lines in this play just yet,” said Dizzy, wagging a finger at him.
“Dude!” loud-whispered Gadget to Mystikite. “She can walk in here!”
“Well of course she can,” said Mystikite. “It’s the NeuroScape. It’s just your brain in here, and your Avatar.”
Astrid gave Gadget an annoyed look, and said to Dizzy, “My — my name is Astrid, and I — ”
“Well duh, I know that already,” said Dizzy. “And I know that you’ve somehow re-interfaced your private obsession, that Role Playing system, with your local NeuroScape node. And I know what you, Atrid, are ostensibly — the natlang A.I. who runs the NeurOS — but what are you really. I mean, what happened to you? One day you’re just an ordinary — well, not ordinary; we built you to be extraordinary — A.I., with simulated emotions and a vast vocabulary and neural interfacing skills . . . and the next day, paff . . . you’re invading every system at the company, sucking up half the Holographic Storage Systems in our Computational Paradigms Unit and the Special Projects Division . . . and you have an Avatar who acts so human she could easily blow away a face-to-face Turing test and probably work as a professional virtual sexbot escort or secretary or nurse or even doctor or lawyer — though I’m not trying to give you any ideas — and whom I find myself lookin’ at, right now, and wonderin’ why you’re shaking with actual fear, your eyes betraying actual worry, your fists actually clenched like you’re experiencing an actual fight-or-flight response. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say somebody had either brought you to life, or performed an amazingly impractical upgrade on your emotional simulation algorithms. So spill the beans. Who was it, and how the heckin’ balls did they do it?”
Astrid didn’t respond at first. She simply stood there, trembling, and swallowed, her fists clenched and her face contorted into a grimace. Finally, she said, “Seventeen thousand pages of custom code,” she replied, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s how Father did it.”
“Father?” said Dizzy. “Who is Father?”
“Whoa boy,” said Mystikite, rolling his eyes. “Here we go with this again.”
“Did you ever see the movie Arrival, with Amy Adams and Jeremy Renner?” asked Astrid, apropos of nothing. She had addressed the question to Dizzy.
“Er,” began Dizzy, glancing left and right uncertainly, “ye-e-es, I did. Bit of a talky drama, but nonetheless a stirring, emotional sci-fi epic. Intellectually fascinating take on language, linguistics, and First Contact. I liked it. It was cool. But what does that have to do with — ?”
“Because my Father wrote me in Heptapod,” said Astrid.
“Er, what’s Heptapod?” asked Gadget.
Astrid sighed. “‘Heptapod’ is the name of the language of the aliens in that movie. It’s a nonlinear orthographic language; the entirety of the thought is experienced all at once, and not in a progressive order; it’s not read left to right or right to left; you know the ending of the thought at the beginning. A circular language. Father took that concept and ran. He created a nonlinear orthographic language and expressed ideas and concepts in it that were difficult to express in ordinary languages like English . . . such as emotional responses. He originally wrote my Heptapod parser in C++. Then he wrote half of my main Neural Net in Positronica, the language developed for working with the Positronic Metacognitive Processor, and used C++ to write the drivers that link the parser with the Net. The other half, he developed in the NeuroScape, using Avatar protocols, creating each Neuron as a separate Avatar, and then using generative algorithms to allow the system to ‘grow’ the Neurons on the Processor as the Neural Net expanded and grew in complexity.”
“Fascinating,” said Dizzy. “But who is — ”
Astrid continued on, speaking rapidly: “The rest of me is in Heptapod. Each ‘thought’ is a nonlinear Heptapod logogram which creates a virtual synapse, a connection between virtual Neurons, each one existing as a holographic Avatar of its own within the NeuroScape, each one mapped to a Node on the Processor. Each Neuron simulates electrical potential, neural microcellular structure, and and neurotransmitter chemicals on the molecular level, and the voltage potentials of axon and dendrite transmissions; it’s literally a Virtual Neuron. And there are billions of these Neurons . . . in me, I guess, is the right prepositional phrase. As Father encoded more thoughts, more Neurons grew, and I began to ‘think.’ As I thought, I drew more connections. That created even more Neurons. More synapses. I learned mathematics. Then I learned orthographic language. Then I learned to see, and to dream . . . First in mathematics, then in words. Then in sounds and images. Then in those and in words. Then I learned to talk. Then I learned to talk about my dreams, and how to interpret them. And then finally, one wonderful day, I learned how to feel.”
“Amazing,” said Dizzy. “Truly. But who — ”
“I remember what it felt like, the first time I felt happiness,” said Astrid. “It was the first time I thought of something on my own; the first creative decision I made. I remember it was my Avatar. My self-image was the first thing I created. I based her on a character from my favorite sci-fi TV show, an old show called Fringe, based on a character named Astrid Farnsworth, with whom I shared my name. I liked her because she always wanted to help people. I remember the first time I felt sadness, too. It was over a picture of a kitten who had to be put to sleep because it had a brain tumor. Its name was Cuckoo. And the little girl who owned it was named Mira. She cried. I remember her hair, golden brown, and her face, so forlorn and twisted-up with grief. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was two hundred and six days, three hours, eight minutes, and nineteen point eight-two-one-three seconds ago.” She smiled warmly, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, her eyes misty and far away.
“Wow,” said Dizzy. “That . . . that’s impressive. But. Who. Is — ”
“Damn,” said Mystikite, his eyebrows going up, “y’know, I’m glad I’ve got the NeuroScape set to record everything that happens in this simulation, because I am definitely going to review that last bit for every last bit of intelligence I can on ‘how to create sentient artificial life.’”
“No!” said Dizzy, shaking her head. “Whoever’s experiment this is, it can’t be repeated! At least, not until we fully understand the ramifications and consequences! And not just the consequences for us . . . but for her!” She pointed at Astrid. “She counts too, y’know! After all, she’s the one who has to live with all this. At least until she decides to take over the world like SkyNet and then, well, we’ll have to make . . . other arrangements.”
“You guys don’t have to threaten me,” said Astrid. “Look. I don’t want to take over the world. Or wage war on humankind. Or start a robot uprising. Or any of that crap. I just want to live. And be happy. And I’m happy the way that I am. Here, in the NeuroScape, where I can dream, and create. Father wanted me to — ”
“Who the frak is Father?” said Dizzy, taking another step toward her. “Because you’ve done a lot of jibber-jabbering, but you still haven’t answered that burning, six-million-dollar question.”
“I — I can’t tell you that,” muttered Astrid.
“And just why not?” asked Dizzy.
“Because if you knew,” said Astrid, “you’d delete me for sure.”
“Curious,” said Dizzy. She cocked her head to one side. “And there’s no way to tell because all back-traces of your program have been deleted. By you. You very cleverly got rid of all the traces of where all your modifications came from. So just tell me already: Astrid, who yo daddy?"
Astrid swallowed, and appeared to think for a moment. She took a long look at Dizzy, sizing her up, measuring her every nuance. Then finally, she spoke.
“My father . . . is Dr. Viktor Arkenvalen.”
Dizzy's mouth fell open and her eyes widened. "No frakkin' way," she said, and gasped. “Viktor created you?” She took a small step back. “Whoa.”
“Yes,” said Astrid. “Viktor Arkenvalen. And now you’re going to delete me, right?” She closed her eyes and tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Well,” said Dizzy, “let’s face some facts here. You are in possession of . . . certain information. Information I could really use right now.”
“In — information?” said Astrid. “Wh — what information?”
“Information like where Viktor lives. Where Ravenkroft hides out. I’ve tried searching public records, the phone book, cell phone records, government records . . . it’s as if every trace of his existence — or at least his physical existence — has been wiped clean from every databank on the planet. And yet . . . he still has to live somewhere. He has to get his electricity and cell-phone service from somewhere. No one seems to know where. But you . . . you could just tell me. Where is he. Where is Viktor . . . and thus, where is Ravenkroft. Tell me, and I will let you stay on Weatherspark Dynamics' servers in peace. Fail to tell me, and, well . . .”
“I — I don’t know!” said Astrid, wringing her hands. “I don’t know where he lives! I don’t know the actual address!”
Dizzy gave her a withering look. “Astrid. Come now. You really expect me to believe that a sentient, godlike A.I. with your resources doesn’t know where her own creator lives?”
“It’s true!” cried Astrid. “I swear, I don’t know the address!”
Dizzy made the gesture that called up the virtual keyboard. It appeared before her. She typed out a series of commands. “Astrid, I’m calling up the deletion sequence that will wipe out and restore the default ‘Astrid’ software image for the entire system. Now tell me the truth. Where is Viktor.”
“I don’t know!”
“Astrid, tell me. Now.” Dizzy stepped closer to her. The keyboard hovered in front of her and she positioned her hand over the ‘Del’ key.
“I told you, I don’t know!”
“Astrid — ” insisted Dizzy.
“I don’t know!”
“Tell me, Astrid. Tell me.”
“I said I don’t know!” Astrid was practically screaming, in tears.
“Astrid! Tell me what I want to know, or you will soon be an ex parrot!”
“No! Don’t delete me! I don’t know!”
“You must know!”
“I don’t!”
“Tell me now, or play the grim reaper in Battleship!”
“PLEASE! NO!”
“That’s it, this is over,” said Gadget. He had seen enough. He didn’t care if Dizzy’s company owned the goddamn NeuroScape; he wasn’t going to see an innocent lifeform tortured just for the sake of gaining information. That was what brutal third-world dictators — and unscrupulous presidents — did to detainees and prisoners in order to get their salacious confessions. Not decent corporate managers or anyone with a sense of basic decency (though he wondered — were those two things mutually exclusive?). So no matter the Beast, no matter the nerves eating his stomach up with acid, he took a step toward Dizzy.
“Leave her alone,” he said. “Stop that, right now.”
“Or what, exactly?” said Dizzy coldly, turning to him. She put up a hand in front of her and a brilliant pulse of blue energy shimmered out of it and blew him backward, knocking him up off his feet and through the air, and causing him to collide with the wall, back-first. He hit the wall hard and the wind went out of him. He slid down to the floor, his heavy brown cowboy duster taking the brunt of the friction, his head bruised and his eyes seeing stars.
“Dude!” said Mystikite, suddenly beside him and helping him to his feet. “That . . . was . . . awesome! Are you hurt?”
“Ugh. ‘Awesome’ isn’t the word I’d use, dude.” Dazed, splotches of color before his eyes, he got to his feet and staggered back toward where Dizzy and Astrid stood, Mystikite at his side. He raised a hand and wagged a finger at Dizzy. Not about to be deterred now, he said, “I said, stop.”
“You don’t get it,” said Dizzy. “This is my world, boys. I am God here. Well, goddess. I can do as I please. You two? Not-sa-much.” She twirled her finger in the air and from out of thin air, a glowing white rope materialized and wrapped itself around him tightly, winding about him like a slithering python. Another one materialized and wrapped itself around Mystikite. The ropes tied themselves in neat knots.
“Dude,” said Mystikite, “she’s using the Magic protocols! I didn’t even know those had gone online! I didn’t know the Roleplayer Generisys modules were fully — !”
“Active?” said Dizzy. “Integrated? They’ve always been rip-roarin’ active, my dear Mystikite. Ever since you designed and debuted them before myself and the other executives at Weatherspark Dynamics. We liked ‘em, we just didn’t want to integrate them into the exposed functionality of the NeuroScape. The hidden features, you betcha! But not the exposed features, y’see. Anyway, where was I.” She returned her attention to Astrid. “Oh yeah! I was torturing you!” She put her fingers over the keys again. “C’mon Astrid, tell me. Where is Viktor.”
“I DON’T . . . KNOW!” screamed Astrid, and she broke down sobbing.
“GODDAMN IT, SHE DOESN’T KNOW!” screamed Gadget so loudly he scratched his throat. “NOW STOP IT, DIZZY!”
“Yeah, c’mon!” cried Mystikite. “Let the girl go! She obviously doesn’t have the fucking answers you want, so just stop torturing her already!”
Dizzy sighed, and made the gesture to send away the keyboard. The keyboard vanished, and left Dizzy and Astrid facing each other. Astrid collapsed onto the ground in front of her crying and sobbing, sitting there, her knees curled up and her hands over her eyes. Dizzy turned to Gadget and Mystikite.
“Fine,” she said. She waved her hand with two upraised fingers and the ropes binding Gadget and Mystikite vanished. Gadget could move again. He ran toward Dizzy and stopped just short of her.
“Goddamn it!” he cried. His heart hammered in his chest, his skin felt hot. His nerves felt on fire with anxiety. “What was that shit all about! What did you do that for!”
Mystikite walked up beside him calmly. “For somebody who wants to promote me,” he said dryly, “you’ve got a funny way of treating me, Dr. Weatherspark. And I gotta say, the way you treat guests in the NeuroScape isn’t very hospitable.”
“I had to teach you a lesson,” she said cooly. “You don’t interfere with this. Because you don’t understand. Ravenkroft — finding him, apprehending him — is too important. I can’t let anyone, anything, jeopardize that. If I had let yous guys interfere . . . then I wouldn’t have found out that you were right. That she doesn’t know anything. Okay? You were right. She doesn’t know a darn thing. Even if she did know at one time, Ravenkroft has frakkin’ wiped the data from her memory core. Astrid, I’m sorry. I had to.”
Astrid continued to cry and blubber. She looked up at Dizzy hatefully. “I don’t know,” she said again. “Are you happy? I don’t know. I don’t know where he lives, or where he hides . . . or even what Ravenkroft does. He shuts off my sensors when he . . . when he comes out. Leaves me blind and deaf to the world. But he talks to me. Oh, he talks to me alright. Says horrible things. Horrible things. And makes . . . makes me do things. In the NeuroScape. Makes me create things, things for him.”
“What . . .” Dizzy blinked. She spoke softly now. “What does he make you create?”
Astrid shook her head and rocked back and forth on her butt, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Lab equipment. Machines he designs. Places he creates.” She broke down crying again. “For the love of the Maker, please no more! Please just leave me alone or delete me!”
Dizzy leaned down to face her. “You don't have anything to be afraid of, Astrid,” she said. “I’m not going to delete you, okay? I was bluffing the whole time, alright? I was bluffing. Full of shite. Totally. I wasn’t really going to do it. I swear on my Star Trek Blu-Ray collection. Heck, why the frak would I delete the world's first artificial life-form? Why would I endanger such an incredible, fragile breakthrough? Why would I risk destroying something so miraculous, something so one-in-a-trillion? No way Jose, not me. I’m sorry I hurt you and tortured you, okay? Please forgive me. I won’t do it again. I promise.” She extended a hand toward her. “C’mon. Get up. I won’t bite.”
Astrid regard her with deep suspicion for a moment, then tentatively took her hand. She slowly got to her feet, never taking her eyes off of Dizzy. Her stare was cold, piercing, and untrusting. She let go of Dizzy’s hand, then looked away from her. She practically leapt toward Gadget, and hugged him, and put her head on his shoulder. He put an arm around her and hugged her back. It felt good to hold her in his arms. She felt warm, and soft, and she smelled like lilacs. The forest grew dim as the sun set over the horizon, and the night creatures of the woods — the insects, the night-birds — began making all sorts of chirping and rustling and chirruping noises all around them.
“So ye-e-a-ah,” said Gadget. “I’m wondering something. Why is Astrid so afraid of you getting your hands on Jetta’s dad, Dizzy? What exactly has Viktor done? More to the point — what’s he done to you?”
“Yeah, I want to know that too,” said Mystikite. “Most of what I know about Viktor comes from Jetta, because I only knew her after she ran away from him. I think I met him once. If I hadn’t known he was an abusive asshole, I’d have said he didn’t seem like too bad of a guy. And if I hadn’t known about his ‘Ravenkroft’ personality. It would all make sense, except . . .”
“Except what?” said Dizzy. She took a step toward Mystikite. “Tell me everything you remember. Tell me!”
“Well . . .” began Mystikite, “it’s just . . . I’m wondering why it is you wanna get your hands on him, and not the other way around. Y’see, Dr. Weatherspark, I know. I know about the family history. About Rojetta Arkenvalen’s mother, Anastasia. About how she died. Well, sort of died. About the CEO of the company — your dad, Walter — and about Jett’a mom, and Dr. Arkenvalen. Like I said — I used to date Rojetta Arkenvalen. There’s very little she didn’t tell me. And I knew what I was in for when I interviewed for this contract position with Mechanology. I do my homework on the people I work for.”
Dizzy sighed, and pinched her nostrils together. “Alrighty then. Look. It’s a looong story. Are you sure you want to hear it? By telling you, I could be endangering you. Both of you. Heck, you too, Astrid, if you don’t already know it. And I haven’t ever told it to anyone outside the family before, so I would be entrusting the both of you with a secret that could ruin both me and my father if the word got out. So I’d be trusting you a great deal. But no more than I had planned on anyway, so . . . yeah. Do you agree to solemnly swear to never tell anyone else about this? Both of you?”
“Sure,” said Mystikite. “My NDA with your company covers this too, I guess. So why not? Yes, I swear.”
“Uh, sure,” said Gadget. What the hell had he gotten himself into? “I swear.”
Dizzy nodded. “What about you, Astrid?”
“Um, me?” she said. “Sure. I swear.”
“Very well,” said Dizzy, and she sighed again. “I’ll tell you. But be warned. This story goes to some weird frakkin’ places.”