This Virtual Night Page 4

  “It stank like bloody hell.”

  “No, that’s what you smelled. But what did you feel?”

  Ron thought about it for a moment. “Disgust. I felt . . . disgust. Revulsion.”

  “The emotion. Not a physical sensation?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Smell is rooted in the limbic system. That’s the same part of the brain that governs our most primitive emotions—fear, aggression, lust, hunger, despair—and also memories. So I’m thinking, if I can identify specific smells that trigger those responses, and figure out how to code them into a virt—”

  Ron’s eyes widened. “You’d be able to trigger specific emotions.”

  “Real emotions. Not the usual suspension-of-disbelief crap but a genuine visceral response. Which means that gamers running from Dobson monsters would experience actual fear, as if their lives were really in danger! Imagine what that would be like! Imagine what kind of an edge it would give to the company if we could successfully bring that to market.”

  Ron was silent for a moment. It was certainly not the enthusiastic response that Micah had expected. “Put this away for now,” Ron said quietly. “Just for a while. Go work on something else.”

  “But you don’t get it. This is cutting edge stuff. The first person to establish a fully functional olfactory model will go down in the history books. It’ll usher in a whole new generation of virt technology—”

  “I get it. I do. Game designers will be able to manipulate human emotions. That’s one step away from manipulating human thoughts, right?”

  Micah’s smile faded. “I don’t know if I’d go that far—”

  “Because you understand the limits of the technology. As do I. But a corporate investigator might not be so well educated. He’ll come here looking for a link between Dragonslayer and the incident on Harmony, and when he finds out that one of our designers has been experimenting with mind control . . . what conclusion do you think he might draw?”

  A chill ran through Micah. “It’s not mind control—”

  “Technicalities. Tridac will have to blame someone for this, if only to preserve their stock value. If they can’t find the real perpetrator, but know you’ve been experimenting with mind control . . .” He let the words trail off suggestively. “Put this away for now. Please. Delete all your working files from Dobson’s network. You can leave the stuff on scent coding; that’s a reasonable project for any designer to be working on. But for God’s sake, anything that talks about direct manipulation of human emotion . . . wipe the system clean of it. For your own protection.”

  Micah wanted to argue with him, to protest that things couldn’t possibly be that bad, that there was no need for him to abandon the work that had so consumed him. But he couldn’t. Because deep inside he knew his friend was right. If Tridac learned about Micah’s current research, there was no telling what it might do. “Yeah.” His tone was bitter. “That’s probably best.”

  Ron handed him back the game chip. “I never saw this. I don’t know what you’re working on. We never had this conversation.”

  “Never.” Micah’s voice was distant, hollow. “And I don’t know anything about the investigation.”

  “Best that way,” Ron agreed. He hesitated. “I’ll let you get back to work . . .”

  “Yeah.” Micah’s tone was bitter. “I’ve got a lot I have to do.” A lot of work I have to destroy.

  He watched in silence as Ron left the room, waiting until the doors closed behind him. Then he picked up the pencil case and hurled it against the wall with all his might. His custom-made pencil went flying, its precious mock-graphite lead snapping as it hit the floor.

  Fuck Tridac!

  It was him against corporate security. Him and his files. Him and his code. Him and the paradigm-shattering research that could have launched him into the history books forever. Only now that would all have to wait. Maybe a short while. Maybe forever.

  They’ll find the perpetrator, he told himself. Then everything will go back to normal.

  With a sigh, he started making a mental list of all the files he was going to have to delete.

  Society requires boundaries. Boundaries require common understanding.

  How shall we seek commonality, after rejecting the concept of mental conformity?

  BELLA AGINCOURT

  New Horizons: Birth of a Social Contract

  GUERA

  (MEMORY)

  “RUISA. COME in.”

  Executive Lifestyle Counselor Ian Cyprus put aside the tablet he had been reading and offered her a smile that looked surprisingly genuine. He was a lean man with a ruddy, sun-kissed complexion—aggressively healthy—and cleanly defined muscles running down both forearms. Not what she’d expected by a long shot, but it was a nice change from the career bureaucrats she’d been dealing with. The kaja pattern painted on his face in fine black lines was the nantana, symbol of a personality type that Ru neither liked nor trusted. Nantana were always trying to discover things you weren’t ready to reveal, reading your face and body posture like others might read a book. Some nantana were so good at it that the mere twitch of an eyelash or the subtlest change in vocal pattern might lay bare one’s most guarded secrets. She always felt naked around them.

  She nodded him a terse greeting. “Hey.” She had painted the raj on her own face, an edgy, aggressive kaja that suggested she had a low tolerance for bullshit. She liked the way it looked on her, its sharp black lines accenting her high cheekbones and the natural angularity of her face. Around the edges of the main design she’d added a hint of kita, which was a token gesture of respect to his authority. I acknowledge your rank, the combination said, but I’ll give you less trouble if you’re direct with me. It was a deliberate counter to the nantana’s love of social banter, and she waited to see how he would respond to it.

  His eyes unfocused for a split second; no doubt he was visualizing the icons that would bring up her psych file. She watched as his eyes tracked a few lines of unseen text, after which he nodded and sat back down behind his desk. She took a moment to look around the office. It was a large room, simply but tastefully decorated in muted tones of blue and amber, and the art on the walls was appealing but aesthetically unchallenging. Clearly whoever designed it had wanted people to focus on conversation rather than décor. In seeming opposition to that intent, however, one whole side wall was transparent, a vast window looking out upon the heart of the city. The view was impressive, but she hadn’t come here to admire the scenery. She forced her attention back to Cyprus.

  He was watching her, of course. Nantana were always watching you. He waved her toward a chair, his air of friendliness polished and perfect as he said, “Have a seat, Ruisa. Or would you prefer some refreshment first? There’s food and drink.” He indicated a side table, where several pitchers of colorful liquid and a platter of decorative snack food were on display. She shook her head and sat, wary of his genial manner. This wasn’t the kind of reception she’d expected, to be sure. You can spend an E-month in detention, the judge had told her, or meet with a lifestyle counselor and have that sentence reduced to three days. “I’m good.” Even to her that sounded curt, so she added, “Thanks.”

  STRESS INDEX RISING, her wellseeker warned her, scrolling the message in bright letters across her field of vision. ACTION?

  NO, she visualized stubbornly. She knew that the wellseeker could release enough sedative into her bloodstream to dull her into a stupor, but what was the point? This guy knew who she was. More important, he knew what she was. Smiling at him like a drugged idiot wasn’t going to make this meeting go any better.

  He studied her for a moment in silence, then said, “You know why you’re here.”

  She shrugged stiffly. “I crashed a singler.”

  “Someone else’s singler.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Which you stole.�
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  She couldn’t stop a smile from appearing. “Sorry about that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a joke, Ruisa. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  The smile faded. She nodded solemnly. Three nights in a detention facility had blunted the edge of her usual defiance by a bit. But only a bit.

  “This isn’t the first time one of your little adventures has ended in disaster, is it? But this time people got hurt. There was major property damage.”

  “I really am sorry,” she said, this time with a hint of genuine regret in her voice.

  “You can’t go on like this. You know that.”

  A muscle along her jaw tightened. She said nothing.

  “I’m here to help you find a better way. One that won’t put other people at risk.” He paused meaningfully. “Or you.”

  “Meds, you mean.” She said it between gritted teeth.

  “That’s one option.”

  “Tried them. Not my thing. Thanks so much for the offer, though.” She’d greeted adulthood by trying out all the drugs that could alter her neural patterns, making her brain function more like what the Terrans had once called “normal.” The law required she do that much, so that she would fully understand her medical options. Great. Message received. Now she knew what kinds of adjustments were possible, and, like many Guerans, she’d chosen to return to her natural state, rather than live in a state of perpetual falsehood. It was other people who had issue with her Variation.

  “You know that drug therapy can be fine-tuned,” he said. “It need have no more effect than you want.”

  “I tried it,” she said harshly. “And yeah, the meds shut down all the cravings that were getting me into trouble. No more hunger for novelty. No more aching for the kind of rush that you only get when you risk something real. No more feeling like the mundane, predictable world is smothering you, and you need to escape it at any cost. The only problem is, those cravings are part of me. Why should I deny my nature? Aren’t our mental differences supposed to be strengths, rather than weaknesses? Why can’t Guera accept who I am, instead of demanding that I change?”

  If she’d expected the question to fluster him, it failed. Calmly he gestured toward the window. “Look out there, Ruisa. What do you see?”

  She twisted around and looked. Beyond the courthouse gardens that surrounded this building was the Gueran capital city: gleaming spires, sweeping walkways, mirrored skyscrapers that reflected the shifting clouds overhead, giving buildings the illusion of motion. It was beautiful and impressive, and on another day she might have appreciated the view, but she couldn’t see how it was remotely relevant to her situation. “A city,” she said, turning back to him.

  “Yes. A city.” He paused. “Think about what it took to build that city, Ruisa. Think about what it takes to keep it functioning, on a planet where no two people view reality the same way. Think of the monumental effort we must expend as a society to achieve the kind of stability that makes great cities possible, when every member of our population is alien in mindset to every other.”

  She stiffened slightly. “So . . . I’m a threat to Guera’s stability. Is that your point?”

  The brief flash of frustration she saw in his eyes was perversely pleasing. “My point is that society must have rules. Gueran society more than any other, given the challenges we have to deal with on a daily basis. Else there will be chaos.”

  Her cheek twitched nervously. Where the hell was this conversation headed? “Yeah, that’s me. Ruisa Tours, Mistress of Chaos.”

  STRESS LEVEL YELLOWZONED, her wellseeker warned. ACTION?

  SHUT UP, she growled mentally.

  He sighed. “This is the third time you’ve been picked up on charges of reckless public endangerment. Each incident has been more extreme than the last. If you don’t get your hunger for stimulation under control, it’s going to drive you to an early grave. And maybe others with you. You know that can’t be allowed. Your right to self-expression ends when it threatens the welfare of others.”

  “So that’s it, then.” She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “You’re going to force me to medicate. That’s why I’m here now, right? So you can tell me that.” She snorted. “So much for personal autonomy.”

  “No one’s going to force you to do anything, other than make a necessary decision about your future. You’re legally an adult now, so that choice is due anyway.” He leaned forward slightly. “Ru, do you want to be part of Gueran society? If so, then you need to accept the responsibility that comes with it. Or would you rather go your own way, free from all our rules and restrictions? That’s a legitimate choice. Guera will support you in it. Just not here.”

  For a moment she was speechless. “Are you saying . . . Guera would banish me?”

  “I’m saying you have several possible paths open to you,” he said evenly. “Some might involve leaving this planet.”

  She bit her lip, determined to hide the wave of fear that had suddenly come over her. STRESS INDEX REDZONED, her wellseeker warned. ACTION? She hesitated, then visualized ADJUST and allowed it to feed a few drops of sedative into her bloodstream. Just a few. Calm flowed into her veins, muting the edge of her fear without quite banishing it. The tightness in her chest loosened just a bit. “What about the benefits of my Variation? Isn’t that what we’re taught in school, that every cognitive mode can be viewed as a gift? Sure sounds to me like mine is being rejected.”

  He chuckled softly. “What kind of mindset do you think drove humans to brave the wilderness of Earth, with nothing more than primitive weapons and a prayer? Or commit themselves to storm-tossed seas with no knowledge of what lay on the other side? What makes humans want to climb a mountain so high that its peak can barely sustain life, or risk the lethal pressure of the deep sea, just to see what lives there? They had your spark. Your restlessness. The first man to set foot on Earth’s moon was driven by that same restlessness, as were the Hausman colonists, and later the first outpilots. Without that spark—that hunger—humanity could never have gained the stars.” He leaned forward intently. “None of those people could have tolerated a mundane life, Ru. Waking up every morning to a predictable routine, facing a future without novelty or risk, suffocated by the sheer triviality of their daily existence . . . they couldn’t have accepted it any more than you can.”

  She got up and turned away from him, wanting a moment of relief from his piercing gaze. “There’s no unexplored wilderness anymore.” Her tone was bitter. “The colony worlds were all mapped and terraformed long ago. The outworld stations are human constructs, every nut and bolt and circuit documented.” She looked back at him. “There are no more great seas to cross in search of the unknown, Counselor. No storms to brave, not knowing what will be left when they pass.” Why do you tell me about things I can never have? The thought was an ache inside her. It only makes the situation worse.

  “Ruisa.” The easy smile had faded now, replaced by a more serious expression. “If that’s the kind of life you want—embracing your hunger rather than trying to deny it—I can help you find it a proper outlet.” A pause. “It is my job, you know.”

  “But not on Guera,” she muttered.

  “Probably not,” he agreed.

  Banishment. You could dress it up in all sorts of fancy words, but that’s what he was talking about. She didn’t fit in here, so her people wanted her to leave. Bitterness clogged her throat; she had to clear it before she could talk again. She looked back at him. “I have family here. Friends.”

  “Guera’s only six months’ travel from the nearest ainniq. You can come back and visit whenever you want.”

  Yeah, but as an outsider. No longer part of this world.

  She walked to the window; it allowed her to hide her expression from his nantana scrutiny while she gazed out at the city. So ordered. So perfect. Had she ever fit in here? Could she ever fit in? Maybe not
.But Guera was her home. Abandoning it would be like losing a piece of her soul. She rubbed her hands on her thighs to still their trembling.

  You won’t have this city—or any other part of Guera—if you go on like you’ve been doing. You’ll have the inside of a cell in a cognitive readjustment center, and those look the same on every world. Either way, the freedom of Guera will be lost to you. Is it better to give that up now of your own volition, for some positive purpose, or wait until it’s forcibly taken from you?

  With a sigh she lowered her head. “All right,” she muttered. She would never forgive her people for making this choice necessary. Never. “Tell me what you think my options are. I’ll at least hear you out.”

  We may share the outworlds with Terrans, but the barriers that divide us will always be there. Long after they stop referring to Variants as non-humans, the visceral belief that we are exactly that will still persist, denying our common roots. It is part of their fiber, their spiritual substance. How then shall we establish trust between us?

  ALYS KUMEN

  Galactic Currents

  HARMONY NODE

  TRIDAC STATION

  THERE’S NOTHING here.

  Micah had studied the game code for so long that his eyes were starting to glaze over. Thus far he’d discovered two secret narrative pathways and five practical jokes that people on his team had inserted without his permission. He was annoyed, but hardly surprised. Other than the one with the naked dancing girls (or boys, depending on the sexuality of the viewer), none of them were of concern to him. Tridac’s investigators wouldn’t even give them a second glance.

  There was nothing in the game code that even hinted at the story behind the attack on Harmony Station. Nothing.