episode THIRTY-FOUR
Data Dump.
She
considered various ways of saying it, but could not quite put her finger on the
gist of what she wanted to say. She was in the park, and it was early morning,
and she had spent the night pacing the city. Armed with her administrative
access and control, she really feared nothing, not any more. But still, she
felt far too slow, moving forward at a sluggish pace. She felt left behind, as
Jack and Stacey were now lost in the stream, moving swiftly through the digital
rapids, while she sat here in a simulated park, figuring out the limits of her
administrative powers. She couldn’t fly. Yes, she tried had that (who wouldn’t?),
and felt silly about it. And she could just barely dredge up the hints of porting, or creating doorways, for
teleportation, but hadn’t even come close to figuring any of it out.
She
had tried many things, and right now, she was going to try something simple,
but terribly frightening. She wanted coffee. The good stuff, like she only
could get in her Inner Sanctum. Well, she wasn’t in her Inner Sanctum, now,
presently, but outside in what she had always considered the...real world; however, she had
administrative control, here, in this
real world. Well, it didn’t hurt to try.
She
produced the coffee, in a stiff paper cup, with a plastic lid on top. She held
the warm cup in her hands. The cup actually had a green logo on it, a little
Saturn planet, with the words going around it in a ring forming the text of the
logo: Reality Coffee—Real Good.
Seven
grinned. Had she done this? Or was this more of the signs and wonders? Was this
the Little Girl, Manda, messing with her? Or Old Ben, with his humorous touch?
She
opened the lid on the coffee and sipped. Mmm, hot and good, just the way she
desired it, as ancestor-sim Jack had taught her, dark coffee with raw honey,
ginger and cinnamon, and almond milk (Jack usually went with soy). Perfect,
right here in the real world.
Okay,
she had figured a bit out. Enough to save her life. But it was all too slow.
She needed to ramp up. She needed the next level. She needed to do some real
power leveling.
She
needed help. But how in the world was she going to get it, that help? How could
she even ask for it? To whom would she make her appeal? Dear God?
Seven
sighed.
I need help.
Nothing.
She
produced a window and thought the words: I
need help. The words appeared as a line of text, blinking.
“Well,
that wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” someone said, and when Seven glanced,
she saw a woman approaching, except it wasn’t actually a woman, but appeared to
be the holographic projection of an approaching woman. The figure appeared
ghostly, faintly blue, and Seven could easily see the park through the woman.
As
she approached, she smiled, and then sat next to Seven upon the park bench.
“I
am your Help,” the woman said, and Seven blinked, because the woman was
distinctly Sandra Newbury, Seven herself, but a much older version. She looked
to be in her forties, if not fifties. “Sorry about that, but you needed to ask
for the help, and now I’m here. And yes, I am you, at least a future you, from
your past.”
“Wait,”
Seven said. “A future me, from my...past?”
“Ha!”
the Help said, “I knew that would get you. I remember you well, you know, my
younger me. And it’s weird, looking at you from this perspective. But you are
beautiful, ripe with youth and health, and a lot of recent time in the chamber,
right? Yes, I can now see why everyone kept telling me how beautiful I was,
because you are, Sandy. Sorry, I know, Seven.”
“Obviously,”
Seven said, “you are more than a recording. You are interactive, and I
programmed you...I mean, our biological—self—made
this interactive program? I mean...you,
Help, correct?”
“Pretty
good, pretty good,” Help replied. “It’s confusing, I know, but no, it wasn’t
our biological self that created...me, your Help, but a much later version of
her, fully digital. Digital, as am I, in a different form, and as are you.”
“Data
is data,” Seven replied, hardly thinking about her words.
“Very
good. Data is data. You, Seven, are a more fully crafted recreation of our
original biological model, compared to me, I mean. You are fully...her, molecule for molecule, whereas I am
a very scant version, let’s say I am a ten percent scale model of the original
Seven, and to save time and space I am projected here as a hologram, but I can
see you, and think about things—remember things. I even have emotions. It makes
me happy that you called upon me, your Help. And now, I am to give you some
Help, in figuring things out, accessing some potential skillsets, and other
stuff. You can bounce ideas off me, I can aid you in brainstorming, and we can
call up some Help aides that only I have access to, at the moment. Of course, I
will teach you to call up those, as well.”
“So,
to be clear, you are not actually...here. You are a projection of a Help file
that is running somewhere else.”
“Technically,
you are correct. But then again, everything is as you have said. Running
somewhere else, projected here. There is not really a here, you could say it is
all a state of mind. It is all here,
in the now, in the program, the vast, overall program. And in that program runs
simulations beyond count. Simulations running simulations. Nearly identical simulations
running side by side, save for but mild variations, for purposes of testing.”
“Wait,
so what you’re saying is, there is really no...projection...we are all just running in a program. You and I are
basically the same, data. It’s not like we are being...projected, anywhere,
right?”
The
hologram stared at her, subtly smiling. “Even unaugmented, you are pretty
quick, Seven. Yes, all of this is a program, running inside another program,
running inside the master program, Vestigial Surreality.”
Seven
shook her head. “But that’s the ancestor simulation.”
“Yes,
it is. It was. VS began as an ancestor simulation. But by your day, it was
steadily becoming something else. Many other things. You could almost say that
Vestigial Surreality was birthed by the Gamer World, High Vale. That world was
shut down, due to religious prejudice, it was a book burning, or the extension
of all book burnings, but the engine was fired up again many years later, some
time after your birth, Seven, for genealogical purposes.”
“They
allowed VS to open and run because of the decoding of Junk DNA, when they
deciphered all the compressed data stored in what they had always thought of as
garbage. When they found all the connections, the backstory.”
“That
was everything...coming together, so
to speak. A lot of disparate elements working fortuitously together. It allowed
the forward-thinkers to kind of slip past the old-school religious mindset,
that man should not explore certain things, that we were trespassing onto God’s
territory, in untangling the make-up of humans, humanity, and everything.”
“Old
Ben has explained some of this—hardly anything, really. And by skimming through
files, and exploring some of the history caches, I’ve figured out other things,
but there’s just no way for me to get through all of this, even understanding a
small portion of it. Just the things you’ve said sitting here with me for a
couple of minutes, the concepts are blowing all the fuses in my brain. There
has to be a way for me increase my abilities. What did you say, about my brain—unaugmented—how
do I augment?”
“That
is part of the reason why I am here with you now, to guide you into techniques,
so that you can begin to expand your abilities. You are like a vast building,
with only a few lights showing in the thousand windows, and as you increase,
lights will begin to spring on, throughout the building, until, with time, and
effort, the building will shine with light.”
“No,”
Seven snapped. “I don’t want to ease
into this. I need to jump off the cliff. I need to plunge into the ocean,
already. Enough wading up to my knees.”
“Little
by little,” Help said, “that’s what Old Ben wants. Little by little.”
“I’m
sorry, but I just don’t have the time for little
by little. I’ve been attacked. I have an enemy, well, several enemies, and
they know much more than I do. I need to get up to speed.”
“There
is only so much that is possible, and it is my job to help you in starting to
learn those simple things that can aid you in increasing knowledge. Look, what
you did out on the street when you were threatened, that was amazing, and all of
it done intuitively. You are already leaps and bounds beyond where most people
in your situation would find themselves. Most people would be like a hamster,
snorting and sniffing and going in circles, whereas you are like a hare, taking
huge leaping bounds forward.”
“Oh
my goodness,” Seven sighed, “the way we keep mixing our metaphors together, it’s
making me dizzy. I’m seeing bunny rabbits leaping up the side of buildings that
are surrounded by ocean. Let’s call it quits with the metaphors and word
pictures, okay? Let’s just start, already. How do I start? Can’t we just switch
on all the lights in the building?”
“At
the risk of mixing our metaphors, we can’t turn on the lights in the building,
it would fry your brain. The human brain requires a lot of track to be laid
down, glial cells, neurons, axon and dendrite—each group is like a miniature
computer, or a train depot, if you will—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s the way we
think, okay, it’s what comes naturally to us—with train track laid between each
depot. These turn on, slowly, with time, after many passes. Passages. Making
deep trails. If you just go and ram power through them—yes, I realize I just
used ram with train with computer with buildings with lights and trails, but
you’re getting the...picture?”
“Yes,
too many pictures, that’s the problem, and this right after I said no more
metaphors. But I want to try it. I’ve already done it with books. I went
through some pretty large novels, and turned up the speed to extremely high,
and read thousands of pages in minutes. I need to do some stuff like that—teach
me those tricks.”
“Headaches?”
“No.
Not at all. Okay, yes, at the highest setting, I read through a
fourteen-hundred-page edition of Les Misérables,
in just a few minutes, and I had a migraine all that day, so yes, I think I
pushed that too fast. Okay, I see what you mean. But that was only after I had
read three smaller novels, at the same speed, so I crammed all of that into
about half an hour.”
“Any
bleeding, or other hemorrhaging?”
“No,
of course not.”
“Fine,
let’s start out very simple. I just loaded a set of earrings, just open your
inbox.”
“I
don’t wear earrings.”
“That’s
okay, these will adhere to your skin, and you can set them for translucent.
They will look like see-through dots, if anyone ever notices them. But each one
is a fully functional computer and data storage device. With these you can
access any database for searching or gathering information—you can access these
tools as easily as thinking, call up photographs or maps or instructional
manuals that only you can see, and they will aid in feeding your brain
bite-size chunks of information that you can absorb without doing any damage.”
Seven
called the dots out of the air and separated them into her palms.
“Just
touch each one to an earlobe, and that’s it, it will organically connect to
your thinking and will run transparently, you won’t even think of them unless
you want to. They will just become a part of your thinking.”
She
followed the instructions and was pleased that she couldn’t feel any weight
hanging off her ears. She called up a mirror and examined the dots and
experimented by changing the colors, just by thinking about it, and ended up adjusting
to a flesh tone that made the dots virtually invisible. She played a bit by
calling up random facts, such as distances and measurements and odd-ball facts
and figures. It was like thinking more clearly than she had ever thought
before. It was wonderful. She smiled at the hologram.
“See,
little steps, they work,” Help said.
“It
feels like a gigantic Superman leap, like right over that building you were
talking about!”
“Augmentation.
There are a number of tools available, and all of them work seamlessly
together, linking resources and memory. Incidentally, when you enter your Inner
Sanctum via your chamber, these tools will still function, it does not matter
where you are. In fact, with many of the best minds, these augmentation tools
train the human brain, maximizing and enhancing it sometimes by as much as
twelve percent in permanent plasticity.”
“Twelve
percent! It’s already working much better than that!”
“No,
it is improving your brain, actively, by perhaps fifty percent, or more,
operationally speaking. But I was referring to actual brain plasticity
improvement, permanent improvement, the shaping of your brain, the actual
sculpting of your mind via neurons—as I said, with the best minds the permanent
enhancement can be as much as twelve percent.”
“Hey,
what’s the Looking Glass—I mean in connection with High Vale?”
“Nuh-uh-uh!”
tutted the hologram Help. “You shouldn’t be searching for Jack, not yet. You do
not have access to High Vale due to the entity that has full control of that
data. Let’s just concentrate on the little steps.”
“But
there is a means for me to sneak in, right?” Seven said, her heart beating.
Yes, her mind was working much more quickly, and it did indeed seem completely
organic, she sensed no interface, not unless she pointedly called up a search
window, or a texting box. But really, all she had to do was think, and her mind
produced astonishing results. She just wondered where Jack was, and his
location flashed as the Looking Glass, and now, considering it, she knew that
the Looking Glass was a monitoring and administrative station located on the
smaller High Vale moon, the Story Moon. And that the Story Moon and her larger
sister, the Honey Moon, were in fact called “The Sisters” by the High Vale
denizens. And further, yes, oh yes, the Honey Moon was a small world unto
itself, with a Steampunk theme. And some small travel was possible between the
two moons, and thus there was a passage open to her, to High Vale! She figured
this all out in the time it took to complete a deep inhalation of breath,
filling her lungs to capacity, and then a long expelled sigh of breath.
Marvelous!
What a brain! A beautiful mind.
She
just figured all that out, with hardly an effort, transparently, but where the
information came from, that information was available as well, when she desired
it, whenl she thought about tracking the repositories of information, the
massive databases, and realized she had accessed a hitherto unknown database on
the history of gaming worlds, with High Vale featured.
And
Help just watched her, and apparently was able to follow the train tracks of
Seven’s newly augmented mind. Chugga-chugga-chugga, whoo, whoooooo! The Help
did not answer the question about sneaking into High Vale, nor did the Help
offer any advice or information on the owner of the High Vale data. The Help
just watched her with a cocked eyebrow, and the shade of a grin twisting her
lips.
“You
need to slow down,” Help said, speaking urgently, suddenly not smiling. “You
are accessing too much data. For now, you should remove the earrings.”
“You’re
crazy, I’m never taking these babies off!” Seven chortled, feeling strangely
light with exhilaration. She believed the term was called high—yes, she felt high. Distinctly giddy. She felt all powerful,
and awesome. Drunk with power. She always knew that she was smart—the elevated
high IQ scores meant nothing to her, it was just obvious how much more smoothly
and swiftly her mind operated in comparison to others—but now she felt like a
super genius, like nothing was impossible. She was the freaking Wolfgang
Amadeus Mozart of thinking!
“I
urgently caution you, Seven, you must slow down,” Help urgently cautioned.
But
Seven always did what she wanted to do. And now she was bending forward,
clutching her head, and blood gushed from her nose.
“You
exceeded boundaries, you silly girl, even while I’m warning you not to exceed
boundaries—let’s see, oh my goodness! Seven! You just tried to incorporate the
whole Encyclopedia Britannica? With
appendices!”
“I
know, I know, it just seemed like it would be useful—I just felt like anything
was possible,” Seven groaned, as data continued to swell into her brain. She
half expected to see ones and zeroes squirting out of her nostrils, surfing on
the blood. She couldn’t think straight, and her head ached like a combination
of migraine and hangover and stress headache. This was bad, and getting worse,
and she couldn’t think how to slow the flow.
“Take
off the earrings, now,” Help commanded.
Without
thinking, Seven complied. She snatched off the right and left earring simultaneously,
and suddenly the swelling pressure vanished. The data flow ceased, and stopped.
“Oh
thank God,” Seven breathed, massaging her temples. Such relief. The weight of
tons of bricks lifted from her brow.
“You
need to get to VS, now,” Help said.
Seven
vomited, and it was shocking to see the amount of liquid expunged, because she
had not eaten in quite some time, and yet she was jettisoning what looked like
to be a gallon of—blood!
“That’s
not blood is it?” Seven gasped, between gouts of vomit.
“It
is not as much blood as it appears, as it is thinned by bile and mucous, your
bodily defenses against your swelling brain. Hurry, Seven, you need to get up
and move toward the VS building, do you see the red glow of the logo?”
Seven
nodded, dumbly, and pushed herself away from the bench, and staggered about
like a zombie.
“Isn’t
there some way to open a portal?” she gasped, searching her brain.
“No,
you won’t be able to do that for quite some time.”
“Wonderful,”
Seven whispered, feeling woozy and confused.
“Okay,
Seven, dear, put the earrings back on, it will bring you clarity. I severed the
download that you initiated, and thankfully you only managed to absorb ten
percent of the Letter A.”
Eyes
clenched, teeth glaring in a rictus snarl, Seven staggered and slapped at her
ears. Fortunately, the earrings almost seemed like magnets, and they soothingly
snapped into place, and her clear thinking returned.
“Don’t
summon an ambulance; they’ll just take me to the hospital. Can you get aid,
maybe call down a taxi? I can’t see the way, not yet.”
“Already
done, it will be here in thirty seconds. Also, I summoned your next Helper,
although technically you were supposed to summon her, and she’ll meet you on
the steps to Vestigial Surreality.”
“The
chamber! Can it help? It should be able to repair the damage I’ve done, right?”
Seven gasped, tottering through the park toward the street and the spot where
the taxi would arrive.
“Yes,
the chamber should be able to repair all cellular damage, perhaps better than
any similar equipment at any of the finest hospitals. We will also engage the Brain Contiguation feature, which you
have not previously accessed.”
“Contiguation? You mean it will connect—what?”
“It
will both group and align all your neurons and dendrites, and make much better,
much stronger connections, deeper pathways, and everything more compressed,
more dense. You will have connections to everything, in appropriate ways, and
you will make much swifter intuitive leaps. The system will also renew and
thicken myelin coating and wrapping, ensuring a much, much fatter brain,
fatter, and faster, and more stable. As old-school computer software used to defragment
a hard drive—putting contiguous data together, cleaning up partially used
space, the chamber can do all this and much more with your brain. If you
thought the earring augmentation was amazing, wait until you slip into your
enhanced brain. You will be what was once known as a Fatbrain.”
“So
I’m going to be okay?” Seven gasped, and perceived the taxi bot lowering to the
pavement.
“If
we can get you to VS prior to bleed-out, yes, you should be fine.”
“And
if I bleed out?” Seven said as the taxi bot door opened automatically, and she
stumbled forward to almost dive into the rear seat. Her hologram Help
accompanied her, sitting almost primly in the back of taxi, adjusting her
skirts.
“Well,
that won’t be so good, but we might still be able to do something with your
cells, saving as much of your original matter as possible. You would be
different, but we would ensure that you retained all your memories. In fact, it
might help to start over from scratch, apply the fresh template, and start off
with a strengthened, augmented new you.”
“Let’s
go with the non-bleeding-out option,” Seven said, hardly able to see through
the spots and stars twinkling in her eyes. She was pinching her nose shut and
tilting back her head, but she tasted blood in her mouth, going down her
throat, and now felt wetness in her ears.
“Do
I have your confirmation for Scan and Debit?” the taxi bot inquired.
“I
agree,” Seven said. “I verbally sign.”
A
slight, twittering LED light flashed, scanning down her face, and she heard the
ping up front signaling a successful debit to her public account. A green light
appeared on the front console and the door swung shut after a kindly verbal
warning—but if you had an elbow extended, or even the hem of a skirt, the door
would refuse to close, and the taxi bot would wait patiently while hell
developed frost, constantly reminding you to keep all limbs and/or appendages
inside the vehicle at all time.
“Destination?”
“Vestigial
Surreality,” hologram Help replied, and apparently the taxi bot heard and
understood, because the cab lifted up and soared toward the tall building.
“It
can see you?” Seven asked, feeling drowsy, she felt much better, really, and
what was all the panic about? She just needed a nap. She actually felt cozy,
and warm, and her eyelids drooped, growing heavier.
“No,
dear, the taxi bot does not read me, or it does, but it reads us as one. I can
choose to be heard or unheard, seen or unseen. Right now, the bot just reads
you. When I spoke, I suppose the bot read just one passenger, but a very wide
one.”
“I’m
bleeding all over the seat,” Seven said, drowsily.
“Please
do not bleed on the seat,” the taxi bot stated, and then: “Bleeding in the taxi
is not an option. If there must be blood, an ambulance will be alerted.”
“I’m
ready for my contiguation, Mr. Demille,” Seven slurred, dreamily.
“I
do not understand,” the taxi bot replied.
“Neither
do I, I must admit,” Help said, and then after a short thought, continued: “But
then again, we have always been like that, saying out loud our strange
connections. We never change, do we?”
And
then the cab lowered near the steps that lead up to the VS building, and Seven
saw a woman standing there, peering nervously in at her, and this woman dashed
forward and yanked open the cab door.
“Come
dear, I’ll lend you a hand,” the woman said, and there was something very odd
about her—something weird about her...face.
In fact, Seven thought, blinking her eyes and peering at the woman who was now
reaching into the cab for her, she didn’t look quite human.
“This
is Charlotte, Help Two,” Help One introduced, “Charlotte Help Two this is
Seven.”
Charlotte
Help Two sighed loudly, exaggeratedly, and clamped two very strong hands down
on either of Seven’s biceps, and hauled her bodily out of the back of the cab.
“That
hurts,” Seven tried to say, but never quite managed the words, as Charlotte
Help Two tossed her over a shoulder, and carried her up the steps, like a big
sack of potatoes.
“Sorry
for the indignity, my dear,” Charlotte Help Two said, taking the steps quickly,
jogging, three steps at a time, “but there’s no rest for the wicked. We must be
about our business, for time is ticking onward, and waits for no man, or woman,
or syn-sim. I am your physical Help,
and I must be somewhat physical in my duties. I trust you shall get used to me,
dear Seven, though it often takes you quite some time!”
“Don’t
freak out,” Help said, trotting alongside Seven, reaching out a holographic
hand to lend holographic comfort. “We’ve tried many Helps through the Cycles,
and Charlotte is best for your personality. You should see Jack and Anne, they’ve
got a real star-crossed love letter writing even as I speak. Poor Jack. Oh, but
poor Anne. But they do have clenching, they will always have that, at least.”
“Love
letter?” Seven said, her face bouncing against Charlotte Help Two’s foamy
buttock.
“Sorry,
another of our metaphors. But Anne is Jack’s help, despite her missing parts,
and Emily is helping Stacey, poor thing.”
“Keep
away from Stacey,” Seven blurted.
“It’s
not like that,” Help hastened to say, comfortingly.
Was
all this bouncing a good idea,
hanging upside-down like this, bouncing merrily along? While her brain was hemorrhaging?
Doctor, what should we do, her brain is hemorrhaging! Oh, certainly, we must
bounce her! Keep bouncing her! Nurse, please jiggle more, yes that is good,
jiggle that hemorrhaging brain, and bounce, cofound it, BOUNCE!
“Quick
quick quick,” Charlotte chirped, sounding utterly insane, “quick is the word of
the day.”
“This
is all like a bad dream,” Seven said, as they entered the building, and
Charlotte Help Two pelted to the elevator, which opened immediately.
“In
all fairness, I did warn you about slowing down,” Help One said, shaking her
holographic head.
“But
you probably knew I wouldn’t listen to any warnings, right?” Seven queried, and
now that they were not bouncing, she found this inverted position kind of
comforting. She might not have a lot of blood left in her body, but at least
now it was all pooled up in her head—or in this case, down in her head.
“Oh,
you never do, Seven, you absolutely never do,” Help One said, sounding entirely
too cheerful.
They
descended for a long time. It seemed longer than Seven remembered. How far down
did this building go, anyway?
“We’ve
moved your chamber to a more secure location, about seventy floors deeper than
previously housed,” Charlotte Help Two informed her, as if reading her mind. “And
in an entirely different building, but access is only possible from the VS
building.”
“Why
secure, or more secure?” Seven babbled.
Help
One spoke, lowering her voice as if someone could be listening. Was she
whispering? Or was she becoming more faint? “Obviously, you are gearing up to
go to war, and the other side knows this, and so is doing the same. So from here
on out, we have to take every precaution, guard every data link. Old Ben is a
little too kindly to be any kind of effective, not really, and Kronoss is just
too erratic, sporadic, chaotic, and just generally unpredictable to be trusted.
Oh we will rely on both of them, but it is best not to trust them too much,
dear.”
“Oh
just get me to my chamber,” Seven said, and it sounded as if she were praying.
“Almost
there, dear, almost there,” Charlotte Help Two said.
“What’s
up with Help Two?” Seven whispered to Help One.
“I
can hear you, you understand,” Charlotte Help Two said.
“Okay,
I’m speaking so that only you can hear me, Seven,” Help One said. “Charlotte
Help Two is a syn-sim, a synthesized simulated person that did not employ a
biological human template. It might help to think of her as a cyborg, although
she’s really not that. You could think of her as a robot, but she’s not that,
either. She’s pretty much a person, but without any needs—she doesn’t need to
eat, or eliminate waste, or breathe, for that matter. But she is a great little
helper, Seven, and you will form a highly effective connection with her.”
“Not
a biological human template?” Seven said.
“I
know what you’re talking about,” Charlotte Help Two said, and sounded rather
snippy.
“Well,
I might have misspoke,” Help One conintued, “as I should have said that a
synthesized simulated person is based on a real person, but not their physical
body, so we are able to skip the more messy aspects of being human. A simulated
person is someone based on an actual human template, and thus is a recreation,
molecule for molecule, atom for atom. The three sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and
Anne—these syn-sims have the imprint
of actual personalities, but far more knowledge than any human being has ever
packed in their brain. Thus they are ideal Helpers.”
Seven
felt rather uncomfortable.
“I
don’t want a slave,” Seven said.
“I
am not a slave,” Charlotte Help Two said, in a rather hoity-toity British
accent. “I choose this service. I was given a choice, and I accepted a choice,
and thus I am not a slave. I am a useful tool and if you choose to dismiss me,
I will find other very useful ways to help our cause.”
“Please
try not to hurt Charlotte’s feelings,” Help One said, with a lot of judgment in
her tone.
Seven
sighed. Anything she said out loud, Charlotte would hear. She wished she knew
sign language. And then she blinked in surprise, and realized that she did in
fact know sign language, or her earring augmentation was feeding her the
knowledge as she required it. She signed to Help One.
I don’t want to hurt her
feelings, but she creeps me out. She looks like a mannequin, or a puppet.
“I
know when you are using sign language, and I assure you, despite my appearance,
I am neither a mannequin, nor a puppet,” Charlotte Help Two said in that...tone.
Drat,
the alert robot—correction, syn-sim—was actually watching her hands, as well as
listening to any whisper.
“Okay,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Charlotte, okay? I apologize. I’m just not used to you
yet, and I’m hanging upside-down, and I’m bleeding from all of my facial
orifices, so you could say that I’m not thinking as clearly, or as
empathetically as I usually might.”
“Empathy
is not your strong point, my dear,” Charlotte Help Two said, and she sounded as
if she rather enjoyed stating that fact. “But I accept your apology. And I in
turn apologize for carrying you upside-down. I assumed you would rather stare
at my backside than my uncanny valley
face.”
“I
don’t think you have an uncanny valley face,” Seven said, although she did feel
a little dishonest in saying it, because Charlotte Help Two looked very weird,
almost a human face, but just a little too rubbery, or plasticky (heavy on the icky),
or just a little too much like a very realistic puppet, or doll, and that
always creeped out everyone.
“Please
do not lie to me,” Charlotte Help Two sniffed. She actually sniffed. “I prefer
the hard, ugly truth.”
Hard,
and ugly, like your face, Seven thought, with a few qualms of guilt.
The
elevator doors opened and Charlotte Help Two finally shifted Seven, who
realized at the last second that the syn-sim was positioning her in the little
flat-bed protrusion of an electric—truck, for lack of a better word. Charlotte
Help Two deftly climbed into the driver’s seat while Help One suddenly winked
out as they sped along a long, dark corridor. Apparently, Charlotte Help Two
did not require the vehicle’s headlamp, for they motored forward without any
light. In the utter darkness, they could be going a hundred miles an hour, or
twenty miles an hour, and the electric engine made no noise. Only the tires
singing on the tiled floor made any noise, and they sailed along in the unseen
tunnel. Hopefully, Charlotte can see in the dark, Seven thought, or prayed.
Seven
felt drowsy again, and imagined that it was because all her blood had leaked
out. Oh, she hoped they did not have to employ the bleed-out option. Why hadn’t
she listened to Help One? But when you were dealing with brain power, and you
suddenly feel twice as powerful, wow, you felt like a god, or at least a
demigod. She really felt like she could do anything.
Her
mind toyed and played and she searched data, but then felt like she was pushing
her brain toward further hemorrhage. What were the names of the Helpers? That
had rung some distant bell. Instantly, and perfectly, she recalled the names:
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne.
Her
mind pinged the answer, because those three names brought up the family name of
Brontë. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
And Charlotte did look kind of familiar, like a puppet version of a historical
figure. A school marm, a governess, and a novelist.
Motion
ceased.
“Are
we there yet?” Seven slurred.
“Yes,
dear,” someone said in the dark.
Seven
blinked around. Where was the hologram? Where was Help One?
“Don’t
worry about Help One, as currently we are cut off from all outside signals.
This is a special corridor, shielded, and once you are in your chamber, Help
One may rejoin you, in your Inner Sanctum.”
“Yes
please,” Seven said, as Charlotte Help Two lifted her up and carried her the
way a groom carries a bride, and Seven heard a sucking sound, and felt a
pressure change in the air, and then she felt them step through into a
different darkness, with warmer air, and then she heard the sucking sound
again, and again felt a pressure change. Her ears actually popped.
“It
will only be a moment now,” Charlotte Help Two said, very businesslike, and
Seven heard what she recognized as her chamber lid lifting, and then she felt
the familiar, comforting foam, moist and warm and embracing. She heard the lid
descend.
And
she opened her eyes, and felt wonderful, standing just before her red door, in
her Inner Sanctum, and she laughed and danced forward on her tippy-toes, and
spun like a dancer. Then she plunked herself down before her big rolltop desk.
It felt wonderful, and real, more real than the outside world, thank God! Thank
goodness, oh she felt so grateful, just to be here again, safe, without that
terrible headache. Goodness, goodness, oh goodness!
“Hello!”
said Help One, from five feet away, and Seven leapt despite herself, startled,
and gasping, and then she was up out of her office chair, and she had Help One
lifted up in a bear hug. Because Help One was as solid as she!
“You
are real!” Seven laughed, spinning the older woman about.
“Yes,
just as real as anything,” Help One said, sounding embarrassed, and then she
pushed against Seven, and said: “Okay, Seven, you can put me down now.”
And
wow, Help One looked entirely like a real person, nothing like a hologram, and
she had weight and even scent, it was amazing. She was actually worried about
her appearance, as she patted at her hair—what a horrible hair style, short and
curled. She would absolutely never
wear her hair like that!
Seven
laughed, and heard a noise, and she turned, and there was Charlotte Help Two,
and she looked utterly normal, like any woman in her mid-thirties, although she
did seem a tad tense, and a little worried, as her gaze met Seven’s smile. And
her clothes were certainly dated, and proper, and just plain weird.
“Charlotte!
Look at you!” Seven cried, and she rushed forward and embraced the syn-sim, who
looked completely normal, like any person. And Seven couldn’t help herself, she
felt so relived, she kissed Charlotte Help Two on either cheek, and then she
laughed, loud and long, and just held onto her Help, as Charlotte sputtered and
went completely tense.
“I’m
just so happy to be here, with you both, oh but do I need help, and I’m so glad
it’s the both of you!” Seven laughed, and rubbed the backs of her hands against
her eyes, as tears flowed. But she felt wonderful, liberated, completely
healthy.
“Good
news,” Help One said, “your physical body is fine, and is repairing even now.
Your blood loss is addressed, and you brain is healing, very nicely indeed!”
“Wow,
thanks, that is great news,” Seven said, and looked to where Help One pointed,
to see a window hanging in space, utterly packed with digital dials and meters
and indicators, and she spotted and identified her pulse, blood pressure, but
couldn’t make out much more in all the clutter. “But what do I call you? I can’t
keep thinking of you as Help One.”
“You
usually settle on Seven-One, and then after meeting the others it becomes
seventy-one, seventy-two, and et cetera.”
“Well,
I’ll skip right to Seventy-One, then, so nice to meet you, in the flesh!”
“We
can monitor your progress perfectly, and I can show you as we implement various
new augmentations, and we will also fortify the inside of your skull, apply
various coatings to protect you from scans, radiation, various Steampunk
vibrations, all that sort of thing,” Seventy-One rattled, indicating various
monitor screens and dials.
“If
I might add,” Charlotte contributed, “it is safe for you to data dump while you
are here in your Inner Sanctum, as all information is collected in various
caches, instantly accessible to your sleeping brain in the chamber, and can be
added to the que of downloading contiguated information. So feel free to
download and dump to your little heart’s content.”
“Whatever
that all means,” Seven laughed, “I’m just glad to be safe at home again! You
know, in the real world!”
“Shall
we drink to it, then?” Seventy-One said, lifting up a saucer of tea.
“Data
is data,” Seven said, reaching as Charlotte produced two more cups and saucers
of tea, and passed one to Seven. Seven immediately changed it into her favorite
mug of coffee, her special blend.
Charlotte
coughed, and changed the mug back to a cup and saucer of tea.
“Tea
is better for your healing, dear,” the syn-sim said, and lent some glower to
her words.
“Thank
you very much, Charlotte, but I do prefer coffee,” Seven said, changing it back
to her mug, lifting it to her lips.
“Tea
now, coffee later,” Charlotte said, cocking an angry eyebrow at Seven.
Seven
realized she was sipping tea from a little tea cup. She rolled her eyes. But
hey. Okay. It was nice, with honey, and lemon. Hmmm, not bad, okay, she’d let
the pushy syn-sim get away with it, this
time, but oh boy, she knew they had some battles looming. She didn’t like
controllers, probably because she was such a controller herself.
“Thank
you very much, you are very thoughtful,” Seven said, with some weight. She
refrained, with all her might, from punching the self-righteous syn-sim in the
head.
Charlotte
rolled her eyes, and smiled a little bit, before glancing back at Seven.
“You
remind me of my sister, Emily,” the syn-sim said. And was that a tear forming
in her eye?
Seven
processed that in her new, augmented mind. Emily, she’s the one helping Stacey.
Emily, who had written Wuthering Heights,
she was helping a guy like...Stacey, Wolf the man. Damn it, didn’t she ever get
a break?
Nothing
but trouble, Seven thought, always trouble. Why can’t anything ever go over
easy?
“Data
is data,” she murmured.
“There
is no body,” Seventy-One returned.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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are we living in a simulation?
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