Index |
Virtual Reality
by Ron Simmonds |
It was just like a drug, really. Or worse than a drug. With drugs there were only short periods of euphoria, but this was a constant high, no let–up. Norman would have never even stopped for meals if his wife had not still managed to exercise some degree of control over him in the beginning. He had been warned about that, of course. The man from the computer company had been most emphatic about it. Only one hour each day, maximum, or you’ll get hooked. The trouble with
Virtual Reality was that it was better than the real world. Trouble may
not be the right word—perhaps attraction might be more fitting. Once you
were firmly planted on the Walker Pad, with the headset in place, the
other world was yours to manipulate. You met computer–generated people,
perfect down to the last detail. If you didn’t like them you made them
disappear. You could travel from Virtual Alaska to Virtual Australia in
a split second with the flick of a finger. You could even travel to the
Moon, and Norman had done that already, several times, with Neil and Buzz.
He’d watched them blast off, back to Earth, and pottered about for a while,
alone on the Lunar surface, before returning home with the flick of a
switch. Nothing was impossible, and he loved it. And he hadn’t even begun
to explore the possibilities of this marvellous new medium. It was space
and time travel without all the inconveniences. The new Giga microchip
had made it all possible. Before that came along the process had been
laborious. The models had been crude, movement restricted, and the whole
thing, even in its infancy, astronomically expensive. The new chip, and
the latest fast computers had brought it all into the range of Everyman’s
pocket. All Norman had to do to afford it all was to write cheques. They
had plenty of money. There was still his wife, of course. She was the
unknown factor in all this, because it was all her money, really, inherited
from her father, who had been a very successful stockbroker. She had hinted at
her displeasure at breakfast that very morning. He was neglecting her.
‘You don’t need me any more,’ she cried. ‘Of course I do. What a silly
thing to say!’ he replied, and tried to comfort her, but she kept on snivelling
and griping until he lost his temper. ‘I’m a pensioner!’ he shouted. ‘What
do you expect me to do? Potter in the garden? Play bowls with all the
other geriatrics? This is my hobby, dammit!’ She retired to the bedroom,
weeping, and a few minutes later he was back in the computer room. Later that day while
searching for a pencil in one of the drawers of her desk he had come across
her diary. The entries of the past few weeks had been filled with her
shorthand notes, but recurring in almost every sentence were the letters
VR. They could only have one meaning. Why she would have written everything
in shorthand was beyond him. He hadn’t even known she could write in shorthand.
He stepped on to the
Walker Pad and put on the headset. The two small display screens right
in front of his eyes in the headset lit up, and he was in the other world
at once—a world absolutely free from nagging or weeping women. He gripped
the handrail of the walker and stepped forward, through the Virtual Reality
door. At once a huge sign blocked further entry.
YOUR VR SIMULATOR RENT
IS IN ARREARS! READ CONTRACT BEFORE PROCEEDING!
He pressed the OK
button and the sign disappeared. Plenty of time to worry about that later. Norman punched in
the relevant codes on the handset attached to the Walker Pad and spent
the rest of the day poking around in the database of his pensions fund.
For some time now he had been looking for a way to increase his monthly
payment without raising suspicion. It would be nice to be independent
of the old bag. As usual he saw other ghostly figures who seemed to be
intent upon doing the same thing. Norman obviously wasn’t the only one
around in possession of a simulator and the illegal entry codes. One of
the figures passed him in the Corridor, which was the simulator’s name
for the electronic links in the databank. The ghostly shape nodded at
him as it went by. Norman found the correct door for his surname and went
in. To his consternation there was no sign of his files this time, but
a note in place stated that they had been removed for a runline error
investigation. Damn! So they had twigged that something was wrong. Two shadowy figures
materialised beside him in the narrow room. One of them held a card up
in front of his face. It said: Security Check. His fingers felt for, and
pressed, the panic button on the Walker bar. At once he was back in the
safety of his den, shaking. He tore the headset off. That was a close
one, he thought, simulation or not. Then the incident was blotted from
his mind, because when he went out of the room it was to discover that
his wife had gone; packed her bags and left him. There was a short note,
saying that she had blocked the bank account. Now he could no longer write
cheques. This was really bad. A short telephone call to the bank confirmed
his worst fears: the cheque for his monthly payment to the Virtual Reality
Company had indeed bounced. Norman had spent most
of his working life with computers and had long been proficient as a hacker.
He possessed an extraordinary skill at worming out secret passwords, ciphered
entry codes and entering other people’s computer banks. Unfortunately
he had never managed to get into his own bank’s files, or those from any
other bank, so he couldn’t make money appear as if by magic in his checking
account. He got out his contract with the Virtual Reality Company and
read it again. A clause he had not noticed before stated, in fine print,
that non–payment of the rental fee could cause the computer link to be
severed at any time. It could be dangerous, it warned, if the client should
be actually in the VR World at the moment of severance. The company could
not be held responsible, etc., etc. Norman allowed himself
a small smile. One thing he had managed to hack with success was the computer
link to which the contract referred. He had typed in the rest of the machine
code two days ago. Now they could cut him off if they so wished, but he
could still get into the VR World by the back door any time he liked.
No one would ever know and he need never, ever, pay for the rental any
more. The next day he moved everything he possessed, including all his
computer equipment, out of the rented apartment to another in the next
town. He rented the new apartment under a false name and left no forwarding
address. From that day on Norman
spent all of his time in the virtual world simulator, only emerging reluctantly
for a bite of food now and then. His back door entry remained undetected. One of the most exciting
aspects of the virtual world, apart from hacking into databanks, and exploring
time and space, was the ability to be actually present in the action of
full length feature films. There was a library menu available to all users,
and regular movie films which had been adapted for the medium could be
selected at the touch of a button. The user couldn’t actually interact
in the films: that would all come later in the development. For now it
was exciting enough just to be in there mixing with the actors. For the remainder
of that week he went through all the Indiana Jones movies, standing only
feet away from Harrison Ford, actually inside the scenes, experiencing
all the thrills and dangers of the action and all the excitement and dangers
of the impossible situations that cropped up for the hero. If at any moment
he felt so frightened that he began having fears for his own safety he
pressed the big red panic button, and brought himself instantly back to
the real world. Of course he was never in any real danger because it was
only a simulation, after all, but some of the situations were realistic
enough to set his heart pounding. During those few days he pressed the
panic button no less than twenty times. On the Saturday of
what he called his Great Liberation Week he called up the library menu
to discover that only one film was available. Whatever he did, however
much he searched in the menu, however many buttons and icons he clicked
with the mouse—it still came back to that one film. He chuckled to himself.
This simulated library had obviously loaned out all the good films for
the weekend, just like any regular video rental store! He’d never seen
this one before anyway so he took it down. The film was Charlie Chaplin’s
Monsieur Verdoux. Soon he was right
in the action with Chaplin, vicariously experiencing everything Charlie
went through with all his various female conquests from a standpoint distance
of only a couple of yards. He had a great time of it, especially in the
greenhouse scene, laughing until his ribs ached. At one spot in the film
he found himself pressed up close to Martha Raye, so close, in fact, that
he was not a little surprised that she failed to notice him. He caught
Chaplin looking at him, though, once or twice, and he could have sworn
to a flicker of recognition in the famous clown’s eyes. He dismissed the
thought at once as rubbish, but for a moment it had been quite unnerving. The film progressed,
and finally, after about an hour and fifteen minutes, Verdoux, the serial
murderer, was caught, tried and sentenced to death. Now this should be
interesting, thought Norman. Death by guillotine, up close! Inches away
if I feel like it. He experienced the dialogue with the priest in the
cell at first hand. ‘May the Lord have
mercy on your soul.’ Verdoux: ‘Why not?
After all it belongs to Him.’ Then it was time for
the long final walk. He edged closer. Rough hands seized him. Wow! This
was getting to be like the real thing! He let the guards march him along
the stone corridor. The other prisoners
on Death Row were banging their mess tins on the bars as they passed.
He caught sight of his reflection in one of them, saw the small, distinctive
black moustache on his upper lip. Now he was Monsieur Verdoux! He was
actually living the part. He felt a sudden queasy thrill of fear. No mind.
There was always the panic button. He felt along the rail for its smooth,
slightly concave surface. It was there, of course, just as it always had
been. Even though he was now (but only virtually!) handcuffed he could
still reach it. They passed through
the grim iron door and there it was: the dreaded guillotine. Madame Guillotine,
the French called it. He looked around, half expecting to see the gloating
masses, the knitting women, but there were only the three guards, the
prison governor, and the priest. Things happened very quickly then. He
was strapped down on to a hinged board which threw him down flat on the
bed of the guillotine with his neck on the wooden block. He saw a large
straw basket below. That would be for his head! He giggled. This was really
something! He had determined to experience everything to the full, just
as he always did. He kept his finger on the panic button, though, just
in case. The blade couldn’t hurt him, that was clear. It was all make–believe,
right? But it sure as hell looked real. The queasy thrill shot through
him again. The priest was mumbling
something, but he couldn’t make out the words. The man of the cloth stepped
back. The prison governor, who had now been magically transformed into
Charlie Chaplin himself, nodded gravely to one of the guards. He looked
over at Norman, and Norman could have sworn that Charlie winked at him.
Above his head something clicked and creaked, there was the painful moaning
sound of a soundtrack dying down, and then everything went into cinematic
slow motion. He heard the huge blade begin to descend, slithering down
along greased rails at a snail’s pace. He watched one of the guards bring
his hand up to his mouth agonisingly slowly. That man is going to be sick,
he thought. The button nestled
under his finger reassuringly. Just in front of his face a small holographic
display popped up, floating in space. It was pale blue, square, like a
computer screen and it contained an error message, like the ones he usually
received when the computer went on the blink. CANNOT
FIND ESCAPE FILE ESCP1995.DLL it said. And underneath: VIRTUAL
SYSTEM LOCK–OUT DATA
TRANSFERENCE CORRUPTED ACTIVATE
SHUTDOWN AND RESTART Above him the great
gleaming blade slipped quietly down the rails. The message blinked on
and off rapidly in big red warning letters. Norman stared in bewilderment
at the display. He was suddenly incapable of rational thought or movement,
as if the slow motion was affecting him, too. He felt the slanting edge
of the blade caress the back of his neck. In the distant, dark recesses
of his mind a small voice kept repeating escape file, shutdown, escape
file, shutdown. As he desperately tried to fathom out what it all meant
another voice whispered urgently that this was surely altogether too real.
The priest’s face swam into his field of vision. He was shaking his head
sorrowfully. Norman suddenly recognised him. It was the salesman from
the Virtual Reality Company who had rented him the simulator. The blade dug deeply
into Norman’s neck. Norman shook off his
lethargy and finally pressed the panic button with frantic, shaking fingers. The button popped
out from under his hand like a small bar of soap and detached itself from
the Walker Pad rail. He watched it as it fell slowly towards the basket,
landing in there just before his head did. There had been no wires attached
to the button, so this time nothing happened. Faces appeared over
the rim of the basket, looking down at him. Charlie was there, the priest,
a couple of guards, then his wife’s face peered over with them. ‘No pay—no play, Norman,’
murmured the priest, sadly. He stepped back slowly and bowed his head,
crossing himself at five frames per second. Then there was nothing.
Really nothing. |