Massively multiplayer, p.4
Massively Multiplayer, page 4
There was also a reminder that today was one of Sara’s livedays, meaning that she would actually be attending the neighborhood school in the flesh instead of merely logging in to her classes from home. He was to assist Sara with schoolwork if she needed it: further evidence, if any were needed, of his parents’ general cluelessness. She was much more likely to assist him than the other way around.
Another note reminded him of his promise to do the yard work. He shook his head wearily. If he were the type of person who regularly forgot his promises or who skipped out on his commitments, that would be one thing. But he wasn't.
The nagging just came with being parents, he supposed. Returning to his room, he threw on his oldest pair of sweats and tossed the rest of his laundry into the wall hamper, where it was whisked away into the laundry system. Let them see his room, clean as he usually kept it, and draw their own conclusions regarding his sense of responsibility.
The yard work was almost laughable: he programmed the mower and sprinklers for their regular summer routines, and by the time those were done he had finished pruning the short hedge which separated his parents' square compartment of suburbia from its identical neighbors. An acquaintance from college had once described to him the experience of growing up in one of the modular arcologies springing up in the desert: a perfect cube of an apartment that connected to its counterparts like so many children's blocks. Andrew supposed that the tiny, living green hedge was the only thing that distinguished his parents' house from that condition.
The afternoon passed quickly, and when Sara arrived home she declared that she intended to upload her homework into the house network to work on later, probably with the virtual assistance of her friends. That left Andrew with time on his hands, time which he quickly decided would also be best spent on-line.
Re-entering his room, he noticed that the house had returned his laundry, clean, folded, smelling of detergent and (ever so faintly) of melted plastic. There must be a short somewhere in the system. No doubt his parents would charge him with tracking down a repairman once they noticed. He stuffed the laundry in his dresser, and then made himself comfortable on the virlo.
The leather straps creaked against the chrome frame as they took his weight. He depressed the recline switch, and lifted his knees to attach the velcro anklets of his computer. He settled the goggles, still darkened, over his eyes, and wiggled his fingers into his gloves.
He lay still for a moment in sensory deprivation, relaxing his muscles and breathing deeply. Like most people, he had been receiving instruction in computer interface since grade school. His full weight activated the micro-servos in the virlo straps, and he sensed his body disappearing as they bore him up at almost 500 miniscule pulsations per second, suspending his limp body a breath above its surface.
For years, engineers and programmers had searched for the secret to true virtual reality, a computerized pseudo-environment which would give users the sensations of actually being in another place, with the ability to walk around, manipulate objects, and do all the other things which futurists had been touting in the pages of Popular Science. The problems were many, and seemingly insurmountable. In the first place, it was not enough to wrap a video screen across someone’s eyeballs -- users were all too aware of the real world beyond the scope of the screens. Even the best available graphics and audio technology could only deliver an approximation of a complete environment as it was normally experienced by all of the body’s senses. Worse were the problems with interface. Early experimenters had relied upon bulky suits which covered the wearer head to toe in order to interpret the body’s movements. Even then, mobility was limited by the length of the suit’s power cords, or the researcher’s real-world surroundings. In a virtual world you might see a street stretching off for miles; but if you tried to walk down it, you would end up smacking your face into a laboratory wall after only a few feet.
Both problems were solved, not by engineers, but by a team of neuroscientists working at Berkeley. They realized that the brain already contained a series of bypasses for dealing with a variety of virtual environments which were encountered every night: dreams. In dreams, people often walked and swam and flew, yet they hardly ever rolled themselves out of bed, much less flapped out their windows. In the dreaming state, the mind simply short-circuited the connections between the brain and the limbs. You made a decision to walk forward, and did walk forward in your dream -- but an observer would note only the barest twitch of your legs to indicate that you had mentally taken those steps. At the same time, a brain in a near dream-state was infinitely more impressionable than one that was fully awake. Suddenly available graphics and audio technologies were more than sufficient to suggest to the sleeping mind not merely the sight and sound of a virtual environment, but its touch, taste, and smell.
From that initial realization, it was but a short step to a working VR system. Manufacturers of artificial limbs had already discovered that sensors on the skin could detect even very slight nerve impulses and use them to control machinery. Then came the invention of the virtualounge, with its ability to further diminish any sensations other than those being piped in through the user’s goggles and speakers. Early experiments relied on combinations of drugs, sensory deprivation, and artificial stimuli to bring about the proper level of near-sleep brain function, but consultations with yoga instructors quickly made such techniques unnecessary. Now discerning programmers traded Vedic breathing patterns with the same hunger with which they pursued new coding tools, and the neuroscientists from Berkeley retired to the Bahamas where they had bought up half of the islands with the proceeds from their patents.
As Andrew purged his mind of thought, the sensations of his own body were lost. The infinite minor aches and pulls, along with the strain of gravity, were slowly erased. His bedroom monitors took note of his breathing pattern and the activation of the virlo and considerately dimmed the lights. His concentration narrowed, drawn in from the limbs which he could no longer feel, to focus on the breath which eased in and out of his nostrils in patterns which had been handed down for hundreds of generations, by priests of religions he couldn’t pronounce, in countries which he would never visit. At the moment he lost his sense of balance, that he could no longer tell up from down, he breathed "Login," and the world blossomed into swirling color.
He was floating in the center of a spherical room three times his height, its curved inner surface polished like a mirror. Small bubbles clung to the surface or floated freely around him, each one a unique swirl of color which upon closer inspection revealed a window to some different scene: in one, an office; in another, a busy sidewalk; through a third, a green field. Andrew carefully kept himself from touching any of the floating bubbles; to do so would activate the application or online site contained within that sphere.
He had downloaded the interface he now inhabited from a friend, charmed at the time by the random element which the wandering application bubbles added to his virtual experiences, but he was now seriously considering replacing it with something a bit more settled. The last time he had logged into his school directory, a wandering shopping application had brushed his hand and he had spent half an hour convincing a music broker that he had no intention of buying any of their wares. In a man-made universe, unpredictability could be an overrated commodity.
To his immediate right was a bubble containing what looked like a tiny library, such as one might find in a very old house, a collage of crumbling books and hooded brass lamps. He reached out his hand, almost languorous in the silver half-light, just brushing his fingertips across its surface, and downloaded his mail. Notes from a friend at college, now working on a mining ship near Alaska. A letter from a high-school friend who had moved with his family to one of the desert colonies, manifesting as a tiny human image floating before his eyes. And, finally, a voice-only note from Gregor, confirming their appointment at 6:00, Pacific time. There were no advertisements today: his filtering software was doing its job better than he'd expected it would.
He had to search around a bit before he found what he was looking for: another problem with this interface. Finally, behind a cluster of documents (appearing in this interface as a floating patch of foam) he found it: a black bubble containing an iron cauldron, boiling over with a glowing red vapor. Again, he reached out his hand and was drawn into a new program.
Welcome to Crucible v3.8. Druin the Thief. Circle: 6. Wealth: 1,455.
Andrew stared briefly at the glowing words floating in the air before him. Where had he gotten so much gold again? Ah yes, the silver armguards looted from the troll slavers' stronghold. He would have to see if he could pawn them before Gregor -- no, not Gregor, but Wisefellow -- showed up. He absentmindedly checked his watch, and shook his head in annoyance at its absence. Of course there was no watch to see. Instead, his wrists were encased in pliable leather half-gauntlets which left his fingers free -- not unlike the data gloves he knew he was actually wearing on the virtualounge back home, where he was really lying on his back, not upright in a cheap tavern room, as it appeared that he was, and of course he wasn't actually holding this bag of looted spoils, it was merely information being fed into the receptors on his data gloves and...
He closed his eyes and took a few calming breaths, repeating a relaxation mantra his college computer instructor had taught him. More immersive environments always carried the extra hazards of disorientation. It was important to get it under control, to go with the illusions created by the program, or risk nausea, vertigo, disassociation, eventually even computer induced schizophrenia.
Sometimes visual cueing helped. He fumbled his way to the mirror which overlooked the small table. It reflected the plain room, unadorned wooden furnishings, the door leading out to the rest of the Grinning Pumpkin Inn, and a young man. Short dark hair, blue eyes -- the face was his own.
But the outfit was hardly the worn sweat-suit he knew he was actually wearing, back in RL. A midnight blue leather vest rode stiffly over a charcoal-gray shirt and pants. At his hips, two long sheaths displayed a pair of broad-bladed knives. His darts peaked out of specially sewn pockets in the vest. The tips of four throwing knives peeked out of his boot-tops, and a flat leather pouch depending from his belt held vials of at least three different poisons. All in all, it was the portrait of a dangerous individual.
Druin turned from the mirror and made his way to the door which led down to the Grinning Pumpkin's main hall. He had places to go and people to see before Wisefellow arrived. Maybe he could find a buyer for the armguards.
The main hall held two surprises. In the first place, it was crowded, unusually so for so early in the day. Perhaps the presence of a minstrel in the corner by the fire explained some of the crowd. People were always attracted to an entertainer's presence, although Druin personally thought that most of the musicians who frequented Bitter Edge sounded like they were simply tuning their instruments. The few who did know how to play usually knew but one folk-song, which they would play over and over. This one sounded like he was doing an early renaissance version of "Stairway to Heaven."
The second surprise came when the minstrel interrupted his song as he caught sight of Druin descending the rickety staircase, and hailed him across the crowded tavern.
"Druin! Long time no see!"
The crowd drifted away as the minstrel slung his instrument (a mandolin, Druin wondered, a lute? What the hell did you call those things?) and made his way to the stairs.
Closer inspection revealed a man in his early thirties, his clothes subdued for a tavern minstrel: olive green leather with black velvet trim. But then, Druin knew, this was no ordinary wandering tavern minstrel, selling his songs and services wherever he could find a crowd with gold.
It was MadHarp, Gil's man. Gil's assassin. Druin could see no weapons, but didn't let that fool him into thinking that the man was unarmed.
"Harp. Long time."
The minstrel smiled slyly. "So glad you remembered me. It's been, what, almost eighteen months since the Great Swamp Trek? We haven't been seeing you around the upper city much since then."
Druin nodded warily. "Yeah, I've been busy. Making coin, you know. I can't afford much Up-Hill anyway, these days."
MadHarp tilted his head to one side skeptically. "Really? You underestimate yourself, bro. What are you, fifth circle now?"
"Sixth."
"Sixth! See, you should be thinking about moving up from this pit. You're good enough, I bet a lot of folks would be interested in hiring you."
Now it was Druin's turn to be skeptical. "If you'll remember, it didn't turn out that way last time. I didn't think Gil was that happy with my performance." The moment he'd said it he was sorry, as MadHarp's sly look returned.
"Ah. I thought so. You've been avoiding us, haven't you? Avoiding Gil, at least. Afraid he's still angry about you letting that vampire princeling get away?"
"I haven't been in hiding. If I thought he was that angry, I'd be in another town. But yes, now that you mention it, he seemed like he was still ticked off. Why go where I'm not wanted?"
MadHarp spread his arms wide, and his look of delight was more frightening than a dozen knives would have been. "Then you are in luck, bro! We can solve the problems with your bankbook and your social life all at once. Not only is Gil not mad at you, he wants to see you. That's why I'm here. He sent me to offer you a job. Come with me back to Gil's and he'll explain." He clapped his hands firmly on Druin's shoulders and swiveled him towards the door.
"Wait a second," Druin protested, "I can't right now, I'm supposed to be meeting someone."
"Don't sweat it, Dru'. You'll be back soon."
"How do you know? What does Gil want?"
MadHarp pressed himself close to Druin's back and whispered in his ear, and his voice was no longer so friendly. "I said don't sweat it, bro'. You think about how impatient Gil gets. Or how impatient I get...you sweat that, okay? You got it?" To emphasize his point he dug something sharp into Druin's ribs. It could have been just his hand, but Druin wasn't betting on it.
For a moment, Druin considered taking MadHarp up on the threat. After all, he was within the city limits...the guards would come running at the first sound of open combat, and they would target the aggressor. On the other hand, MadHarp was quick, and Druin might already be dead by the time they got there, and if the combat were over, the guards would do nothing.
He'd lose everything he was carrying, including his weapons, his armor, and the treasures he'd looted from the troll slavers, and run the risk of losing a circle in rank as well.
Worse, he'd be away from the minstrel for only a few seconds. His body would be carried back to his room upstairs for reconstitution, and he'd re-enter the game right back where he started – only this time he'd be weaker, and unarmed. MadHarp could simply wait at the bottom of the stairs, killing him over and over again, until he agreed to accompany the minstrel assassin to Gil's.
And even if the guards arrived on time, or if, by some miracle, he managed to dispatch MadHarp, that would hardly be the end of it. Some people, when you killed them, considered that the end of the affair. MadHarp was the other kind. He carried grudges. He'd come seeking Druin out again, and he wouldn't just be following Gil's orders this time. He'd make it personal, and he probably wouldn’t stop killing him until Druin was back to being a first-circle thief. If then. Druin's options were limited, and all of them seemed bad.
"Right, okay, I'm going. But this better be worth it." The protest sounded feeble even to his ears.
"Outstanding!" the minstrel laughed more loudly. "See, I knew you were smart."
Wonderful, Druin thought morosely, that makes one of us.
The hill above the port of Bitter Edge was encircled by a low stone wall, pierced in three places by brass gates. Unlike the defensive walls which circled the town below, these inner defenses were more symbolic than effective. An experienced thief like Druin could have scaled them without effort. But the symbolism was significant. Up-Hill was the location of the powerful guild-towers. It was also the abode of the wealthy and the powerful, those Adventurers of the tenth circle and above who had accumulated enough gold to purchase a piece of permanent property instead of merely renting a room in one of the town's half-dozen inns.
Those who managed to gain such a foothold tended to be cautious, jealously aware that their situation was a precarious one, and that any drop below the necessary rank or wealth would send them back out into the ranks of the more commonplace Adventurers.
The house of Gil de Wraithmorte was small by Up-Hill standards, which was only to say that it was more a mansion than a palace, lacking an outer curtain wall or courtyard. The walls were of unadorned sandstone, dull next to the marble columns of some of the other houses, or the polished obsidian which made up the towers of the Binders' Guild. But the Binders were mages, and thus devoted to flashy appearances. Gil’s place was massive, but practical.
And, like most noble houses, the place was positively crawling with guards, faceless hulks whose intimidating appearance was scarcely brightened by the blood-red tabards worn over their dull gray armor.
"You like?" MadHarp asked as they passed unchallenged through the open front gate. He gestured to indicate the flat beige walls, the guards, the view of the city and the harbor, the upscale neighborhood.
"Sure, great," Druin agreed, less than heartily. He was bothered by the fact that MadHarp hadn't bothered to disarm him before entering the house. That indicated that he wasn't even being considered as a potential threat, a bad sign when dealing with the paranoid Gil and his minions. "What is Gil now, anyway? Has he reached twelfth circle yet?"
"Fourteenth," MadHarp countered mildly.
