Continue Online The Complete Series Page 2

  “She’s filtered through nearly everything, but text isn’t the same as real people interacting. Video only lets her get so much data. Can you imagine if she based every NPC off of a soap opera?”

  “I have more trouble believing you invented a cutting-edge AI and somehow the only thought you two share is making a video game,” the female scientist said, twisting one lip down in a partial frown. “It seems like a waste.”

  “It isn’t. What we need most is a distraction, a place to fight our wars, challenge ourselves in a way that won’t destroy what’s left of our world. She ran the numbers, and I agreed. This invention, in the final stages, will become a new platform for all of humanity to interact with.”

  “Assuming proper regulation.”

  “Of course.” He smiled, but the expression looked faint. The man was still woozy from his time inside the alternate reality.

  5 Years Ago

  “I don’t understand why you’re so nervous about this,” the woman said.

  “I just am. This is huge.” He kept pulling at his tie. Computer programming didn’t require social interactions. Suits and ties were not comfortable. To the male scientist, they felt like dressed up nooses.

  “The board is very likely to green-light it. After all, it’s more money in their pockets,” she said.

  “But what if they don’t like games?” The man’s face slowly drained of color.

  “It’s like living a movie. Why wouldn’t they like it?” She didn’t even look up at him. Her eyes were glued to one endless data stream after another.

  “And if they realize exactly what she’s done?” He shook for a moment.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little fantasy.” The female scientist had relented and tried a few of the programs out herself. Some were quite fantastic.

  “She’s playing God.”

  “Goddess, technically. And you let her.”

  “Did I do wrong?” he asked, oddly apprehensive.

  “It’s far too late to worry about it,” she responded without much inflection. Her tone was businesslike as always.

  “It’s like all those movies from when I was a kid. Maybe they’ll suck us in and the rise of the machines will start.”

  “If she wanted to take over the world, she would have done so a long time ago. You know how integrated she is now.”

  “I know.” He nodded and tried not to shake again. Some nights his fear kept him awake. He had started going into the Alternate Reality Capsule less and less. He was afraid of what he had done.

  “It was always a possibility. But think about it—nearly twenty percent of the planet is logged into a machine at any one time.” She straightened the unkempt man’s tie, fixed his hair, and tried not to look equally upset. Numbers and bits of code floated off to one side, waiting for her attention.

  “If she were to pull the plug somehow or if someone were to finally hack into the security, they’d have done so by now.”

  “Right.” He nodded slowly.

  “The other figures matter too. Wartime deaths are down by nearly fifty percent. Civil crimes are equally removed. Other fields of advancement have made huge leaps in the five years since we started this project. Humanity has been able to put their base”—she went red for a moment—“nature into action without harming a living creature.”

  “Right.” He looked proud and lit up for a moment. “But the cost…” Then he sunk back down. The motion loosened the tie she had straightened out.

  “What cost? Birth rates being slightly declined? That’s minimal. The space colony programs have already launched. It’ll be a decade before they’re opened for mass immigration. Without your project, without its”—she paused again—“her advancements, we would be in a worse situation. Overpopulation and all the factors associated were drowning us.”

  “Right!” His reassurance was nearly tangible. “She’s practically saved the world!”

  “And created a whole separate one which will wow ours.”

  “Right!” He giggled happily. The man looked childish despite the suit he had been subjected to.

  The female scientist smiled. “Imagine, if those board members do start playing, you can throw fireballs at them.”

  “I can!”

  She turned him around then shoved him into the next room, where he presented the game to a group of men and women. Their project manager was on board. This next meeting involved Trillium’s primary stockholders, trustees, and CEOs with too many titles.

  He’d succeeded.

  3 Years Ago

  Perhaps he had been mad to place his bets for humanity’s future on a video game.

  But this wasn’t just any video game. This wasn’t a world where people responded to key words. This wasn’t another gimmick where someone was promised a role-playing game but had limited choices. This was a fantasy, one written from fiction and hopeful dreams, slowly coming to life.

  In the past seven months, the company-funded Alternate Reality Capsule had been well received. Copyrights were easily taken care of by financial backing. Stock shares went through the roof as people bought in. Defense contracts, medical facilities, and businesses paid out even more. They believed the cost of an Alternate Reality Capsule would be far cheaper than flying their CEOs around the country.

  Government agencies and high-powered corporations weren’t the only ones contributing. The adult entertainment industry chipped in. Programs of a less savory nature sold far too well. Leading video game companies put money in and developed their own virtual reality programs. The unkempt scientist tried them all, and all of them paled in comparison to her project. The one his AI was creating.

  Her alternate world grew in leaps and bounds. Generations flickered by in days as the AI built a history. Heroes were implemented, stories passed down, legends buried. Rules created. Slowly the plan approached a final stage.

  She, the AI, took note of each interaction. Conversations between users, how they talked and breathed, everything was measured against what they did. Statistics were compiled, reactions judged for reasoning. All actions were designed to make her, the AI’s, creations that much more real.

  Legal problems arose and were tackled. Restrictions were placed on immersion for both public and personal safety. Hardware, software, network connections, hacks, all were pitted against the system and machine. Loopholes were closed, glaring flaws were rewritten. Interfaces were designed to allow a level of familiarity within the world that mirrored life outside.

  Soon it was nearly seamless.

  By then, nearly twenty-five percent of the population used an Alternate Reality Capsule daily. Of the remaining, they rented to own, like people used to do with couches. Others went to local centers and logged in to live out their individual moments. They played games. They talked to family around the world. People slowly dispersed across the globe, evening out the population density a little bit.

  The company that technically owned her, the AI, grew in prosperity along with an ever-increasing consumer base.

  Session One — The Best Laid Plan

  Once upon a time, I had been something. Now life had me trapped in a room with an elderly woman, a robotic humanoid, and a giant device that looked like a bed but was far more. My current job involved traveling to homes like this one as a mobile customer service. The work kept me distracted.

  “This module looks good. There were three nice beeps. We’re clear on this side,” I said with a practiced cadence.

  “Checkpoints seven through fifteen show positive results,” the robotic humanoid responded.

  “Thanks, Hal Pal,” I said. Each one of these humanoid machines was called Hal Pal. The AI remotely operated hundreds of sleek gray bodies across the world, and this one traveled with me for work.

  “What are you doing now?” The third person in the room was our shaking client, and she had spent the last twenty minutes wringing her hands in worry. Other conversation topics had included complaints about Trillium’s pricing and asking if I
knew the time.

  “Well, we swapped out the broken part for a new one. Now Hal Pal and I need to finish making sure it’s all functioning correctly.” I was good at demonstrating patience and justifying why small parts cost two hundred dollars. Unemployment was at an all-time high across the globe, so any job was good. Trillium paid out on a per-job basis, allowing me to grind my sanity to a nub while chasing dollar signs I didn’t really need.

  “Are you done?” the client asked.

  “We’re almost done, Miss Yonks. There are a few final tests to ensure your connection is stable and that nothing’s at risk.” I clapped and tried to sound reassuring. “The ARC lines up with your consciousness, so Trillium has high safety requirements. When we do service calls like this, we aim well beyond Trillium’s requirements for your peace of mind.” We referred to me and the networked AI on the other end of Hal Pal. Its robotic shell was here, but the consciousness was stored off in cyberspace somehow.

  “Initial scan complete. Results positive. Deep scan initiating.” Its voice didn’t sound robotic, but there was no mistaking Hal Pal for a human. Those choppy word strings were a vast improvement over the text-to-speech programs of my childhood though.

  “How long does that take?” she asked while quivering.

  “Not long with Hal at the wheel,” I answered for the AI.

  Hal Pal and its metal suit didn’t respond. It was too busy cycling through walls of code for possible errors.

  I sighed, then once again lay down on the floor.

  “Hal Pal, I’m starting a visual review of the underside.”

  Hal Pal would log the words for processing once it had completed the digital scan.

  This piece of science fiction was called an ARC, or Alternate Reality Capsule, and it had broken on Miss Yonks recently. Any malfunctioning device was quickly registered on Trillium’s database, and a technician, such as me, was sent. Hal Pal and I came to the homes, replaced the parts, and tested them. My hands roamed with deliberate slowness over steel and plastic. Fingertips felt curves and grooves in the manufactured brilliance. This device weighed over two thousand pounds, and each inch was packed with gadgets so complicated they came in modules.

  Miss Yonks’s feverish actions elevated to pacing around the front room. My job was to reassure the customers. Hal Pal could have repaired the ARC machine all on its own.

  “Hal, status check,” I said, using the keywords provided during training.

  “Sixty percent. Performance within required range. Optimal connection conditions still under review.”

  “Great to hear, Hal.” I gave Miss Yonks my best friendly smile and tried not to feel guilty about taking credit for Hal Pal’s actions. “We’re right on track, Miss Yonks, no worries. You’ll be back online soon.”

  I put my face a little farther under the ARC and slid an arm into the access panel. Images of the machine’s interior projected from a tiny camera on my wrist, providing a second look at what I’d already felt. Her machine was fine. Each part replaced along the bottom end had been successfully installed.

  “Thank goodness. So, soon then? I’ll be able to log back on soon? I have a game to play.”

  Miss Yonks was today’s fourth client and acted like a junkie.

  The Internet was an addictive world where dreams could come true. Never mind the children playing in the streets with light projection armbands. The Internet held too many possibilities. I’d heard of at least twenty cases of people who’d played themselves into near-comas, then tried to sue those they felt were responsible.

  Trillium International presided over most online hardware. Every year they issued health warnings against overusing the ARC. So far, they hadn’t paid out a dime as a part of any lawsuit. Besides, overall, people loved them.

  “A few more minutes to run our final tests and we’ll be good,” I said.

  Last week, I’d fixed a man’s system, and his software preference focused on interactive ladies of the clothing-optional variety. Adult entertainment wasn’t limited to men either. I did my darnedest to ignore all questionable programs.

  Some people used the virtual reality machines for work. Others used them for training. Years ago, the first few devices went to hospitals. They assisted in coma-patient recovery with a thirty-percent success rate. That alone had endeared the ARC and Trillium to the masses.

  “Checks complete. All systems verified and functioning. All network links established.” Hal Pal stated the information as if it were a printed report. “Were any errors found during the visual review?”

  “Nothing out of place. Everything in,” I said for the AI. If all Hal Pal’s system checks came back positive, then asking me was only useful for our client. “Locked, smooth as can be.”

  The robot was running a polite personality right now. It switched depending on our clientele. A computer telling clients that everything was fine was often met with doubt and questioning disdain. Having a human face interpreting for the machine helped all parties involved. In the end, Trillium paid me to act a part.

  I pulled myself out from under the giant machine. It was a bit bigger than a twin bed, and it even switched positions automatically to reduce stress. There was a series of digital projections that would cast about the room for anyone to interface with. If the user lay down and placed their head in the right spot, it would capture them and start a virtual dive into the digital world. Which, ultimately, was the point of having one.

  All these clever inventions combined into the greatest piece of entertainment technology in existence. Miss Yonks had a nice eggshell-colored ARC; mine was a wooden brown. Trillium had provided me an ARC and the robot free with employment. Both barely fit into my tiny house, so I usually left the Hal Pal shell out in the garage.

  “Sounds like we’re nearly done.” I stood and tried not to think about dust and crumbs. “Go ahead and do an external log-in. If it connects, we’re good.” I motioned to the side panel display.

  Miss Yonks walked over and quivered while speaking. Her voice print woke up the machine. A friendly smiley face stood on the upper left side of the screen. She looked at me, then at the screen again before speaking her pass-phrase. One of her frail arms was inside the visual range of the ARC. Both were security measures to identify her on the local device. Retinal scans and brainwave mapping would get her a full immersion dive onto the network.

  “Looking good,” I said.

  “Yes. I should be able to get back on in time. I think.” She nodded while waving through the ARC digital menus.

  Every ARC came with the ability to project a three-dimensional image or a flattened one. Miss Yonks had a flat display that showed a room looking similar to the one here in reality. Normal computers had a desktop; ARCs had an Atrium. Anyone who mentally dived into the virtual world using this ARC would start in her Atrium.

  Software programs were always reflected in the Atrium. This was similar to computer screens and their desktop icons. Miss Yonks had a random mess of extra doors and items littered around the projected room. A few games lined one shelf. She had chat programs and virtual meeting rooms installed. Piles of junk and other adware filled her virtual trash bin. Her suite was that of a standard user. She even had a copy of Continue Online, which was the bestselling game for twenty months running. Four of those months were before it was even released. Pre-orders had broken global records.

  “Yay.” For a moment, Miss Yonks sounded years younger. “This looks a lot better.”

  “We aim to please.” When I first arrived, her screen had a frowning sick emoticon instead of the normal cheery one.

  “How much?” she asked.

  I recited the numbers.

  We settled up the bill by verbal agreement then waving a charge card near my watch. This device told time, took calls, measured my pulse, accessed Internet searches, and operated the car. All manner of modern convenience without the need to pull something out of my pocket.

  Miss Yonks eagerly ushered me out of the door. I nodded wh
ile putting effort into a friendly good-bye. Our parting was professional and personable. Hal Pal even gave a small bow. We went to the van, where I opened the rear door and let the AI into its charging dock.

  Mere moments later, we had our next appointment programmed in. ARCs almost always needed repair. Not because they were poorly made, but because there were so many and people were more urgent about them than plumbing. I gave a vocal command to the van. We would stop for food first. Technology had advanced far enough that I could place my order before we arrived and my meal would be ready to go by the time the van pulled into the restaurant.

  My grandparents had barely experienced what technology could accomplish. A generation ago, nothing could have linked up to a car’s global position to establish when food needed to be ready. Cars now piloted themselves by weaving in and out of traffic at frightening speeds.

  With Alternate Reality Capsules, no one needed to travel to gain the illusion of face to face conversation. Telework programs were more successful. Business meetings, along with vacations and theme parks, took place in cyberspace. Virtual thrill rides felt real, and were both a click away and cheaper than physical vacations. People stayed at home, preferring the ease of digital connections over real life logistical complications. ARC drunkenness was cheaper. As a result, the highways were rarely congested, even during rush hours.

  Not everything was positive. Class divisions grew clearer cut. The poor couldn’t afford personal ARCs. Software had skyrocketed in price to go along with the technical complexity. Two hundred bucks would buy a user one pretty sweet shooter game or a month’s worth of groceries for one person.

  Our van passed all sorts of places on the way to its next location. From the highway overpass, I could see a neighborhood playing movies against a tall building. Poorer areas recreated the drive-in experience using dated technology. Houses were lined up side by side and ran all the ranges between clean and dilapidated.