Chapter Four

 

Speculation about 'First Contact' was nothing new. Such things pre-dated space flight and became all the more popular once mankind had spread to the stars. Most people took it for granted that there were sentient aliens out there somewhere, particularly when a handful of simpler, non-sentient ones were encountered on various worlds. General consensus seemed to be, "Well if we've done it, why can't they?"

In a poll conducted a score or so years before the Great War, 87% of people were found to believe in sentient aliens. Admittedly, in a similar poll taken ten years after the War, that figure had dropped to 74%, but everyone agreed that the dip was only to be expected. Naturally, they failed to agree on why this was expected - some experts argued it was due to the general exhaustion and depression of a populace subjected to a century and a half of constant warfare, while others put it down to the opposite, claiming that optimism and high spirits resulting from the War's end meant that less people yearned for the psychological crutch of technologically-superior aliens and were more confident of humanity's ability to forge their own future.

What no poll managed to predict was how slight the impact on everyday life of mankind's first meeting with another civilisation would prove to be. People heard about the Byrzaens, talked about them, speculated, offered their opinions, and then went on with their daily routines as if nothing had happened. After all, work was still there the next day, their boss was still the same old cranky self-serving bastard he'd always been, food still needed to be paid for, and energy prices continued to creep inexorably upwards at every turn. What had changed?

Not that this was a one-off headline soon to be forgotten, of course; the Byrzaens were here to stay and the media went out of their way to ensure the story remained fresh and bright. The public were bombarded with images, analysis and comment on the minutest of developments and with the views of a succession of experts (though many a cynic questioned how humanity could possibly have experts on the subject). Then there were the learned debates and panel discussions that did little but rehash the limited material available, though frequently spicing it with a liberal helping of unfounded conjecture. None of which amounted to anything more than a series of fanciful diversions for the ordinary person in the street, of marginal relevance at best.

As far as Philip could see, those most directly affected by the Byrzaens' arrival were the celebrities of the hour. They weren't any more, at least not to the same extent.

The normality of it all left Philip bemused. He found his native world Home post first contact to be pretty much identical to Home before first contact. Philip and his father returned there sooner than either of them had anticipated. Once the initial excitement caused by the Byrzaens settled down a little and matters on New Paris began to take on a semblance of order, somebody found time to notice the presence of the two enhanced partials, and nobody seemed to have the foggiest idea what to do with them. In the end, rather than use them as a resource as Malcolm stridently argued, the ULAW officials decided to pack them off back to Home.

"But my help could be invaluable," an exasperated Malcolm had argued. "I built The Noise Within for goodness sake!"

"Yes, we're aware of that, Dr Kaufman, but matters have moved on, and the pirate ship is no longer our primary concern," a smiling ULAW official explained. Of course not, top priority would be the Byrzaens themselves - a subject Malcolm also had some unique firsthand experience of, though he seemed reluctant to advertise as much. Still in the process of finding his virtual feet, Philip was happy to accept parental guidance on such things for the moment.

"Thank you for your offer. We know where to find you should we need to," was ULAW's final brush off.

Personally, Philip suspected that those government officials onsite saw shipping the two transhumans out as the quickest and most convenient means of removing an unknown factor from the equation. He toyed with the idea of cloning himself and leaving a version behind on New Paris to see what could be uncovered about the Byrzaens, but supporting a virtual personality as complex as he'd now become required a lot of power and it was bound to be noticed. The only person he'd trust to cover for him on something like this was Leyton, the government agent who'd been present at his corporeal 'murder' and, indeed, had hunted down his killer. Unfortunately, Leyton - one of ULAW's elite force of Intelligent Gun wielders, or eyegees - had dropped off the radar somewhere along the line, presumably assigned elsewhere to some other covert project.

Besides, the prospect of having two versions of himself running around was strangely unsettling for Philip, who was still coming to terms with having one virtual version of himself, so he shelved the idea.

Philip was still testing the boundaries of this new existence. In theory, he could simultaneously occupy all of a given system, but in practice that proved a disturbing experience when he tried it. Even within the comparatively limited confines of the New Paris' stationwide net, he felt his sense of self, his very identity, slipping away and quickly pulled himself back into a centred node of awareness which he knew to be Philip.

"That's a dangerous game," Malcolm told him.

"You've tried it, then?"

"Of course, when I first uploaded. But I don't intend to try it again in a hurry."

Philip could understand why. He had a feeling that if he'd stayed that thinly spread for any length of time, all sense of who he was would have evaporated with little chance of its ever returning.

The two of them hitched a ride back to Home aboard a ULAW ship, travelling officially within the ship's systems rather than stowing away as Malcolm had on the outward trip.

Once underway, Malcolm seemed to accept the return to Home with remarkable good grace. Indeed he seemed almost eager to do so, his anger at being prised away from New Paris quickly forgotten. Philip knew his father too well and was determined to work out what the wily old goat was up to before being told.

"What's the rush?" he asked,

"You tell me."

Philip thought for a split second. "Money." He'd been concentrating too firmly on what they were leaving behind and not paying attention to what awaited them.

"Exactly."

Philip Kaufman was now officially dead. The funds he'd always taken so much for granted were no longer his but now formed part of an estate, to be distributed according to his officially recorded will. Theoretically, in the absence of objections, that could all take as little as a matter of days. In Philip's case it would inevitably be longer, due to both his prominence and the complexity of his financial affairs, but, even so, the process of freezing accounts and valuing assets would have already begun. Living on as a transhuman would cost money that was swiftly slipping from Phillip's grasp.

"You've taken contingencies, I assume?" Malcolm asked.

"Of course." Funds tucked away in hidden accounts, investments which didn't appear in any official record - reserves against unforeseeable circumstance. "They won't amount to much, though, not in the long term."

"We might have to be a little loose and free with the law."

"You mean tamper with my will." To create a provision, to ensure sufficient funds were in place to support his virtual self in perpetuity.

"Something like that."

"I didn't think that was possible." Wills were supposed to be sacrosanct, heavily encrypted with such sophistication that they were beyond the reach of hackers and would-be thieves.

"It isn't," Malcolm confirmed, "which is why it's so expensive. Impossible things always are."

A further reminder that Philip was still a babe in virtual terms, reliant on his father's experience.

As soon as they reached Home they paid a visit to Catherine Chzyski, acting CEO of Kaufman Industries following Philip's demise and almost certain to be confirmed in the role once the board got their act together. The transfer from the spaceport to Catherine's office was all but instantaneous, a feat Philip only wished he could have managed in his former corporeal life. Catherine accepted their call without hesitation. He didn't think he'd ever been happier to see the severe features of his former colleague and sometime boardroom adversary than he was at that moment, though it was a little strange being greeted as a visitor in an office he'd occupied for so long.

He could see instantly that she'd made changes - the mobile photos, or moties, of him meeting various dignitaries were gone from the wall (though Catherine hadn't yet chosen to replace them with any of her own) and she'd installed a large multi-shelved cabinet filled with books; genuine bound paper, a luxury he had never acquired a taste for. The desk remained the same but his chair had gone. None of the changes were a surprise, which didn't prevent them from being a shock. He tried to ignore the emotional baggage the moment brought with it and concentrate on what Catherine was saying.

"Philip, very sorry to hear about what happened to you on New Paris," which was a neat way of referring to his assassination without actually mentioning it, "but delighted to learn you took the decision to ascend." Typical of Catherine; efficiency in all things.

Malcolm fell into conversation with the shrewd old crow like the two long-term collaborators they were, and Philip couldn't help but wonder how much interaction there'd been between the pair even while he was still alive. Fortunately, Catherine didn't seem to share Philip's prejudice against enhanced partials, and declared she was happy to accept the input of both generations of Kaufman in an advisory capacity. "There'll be a suitable retainer, of course," she added, in a way that suggested she understood exactly what financial burdens were involved in living on after death.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps Catherine was intending to join them after she passed away. Now there was an interesting prospect. Had Malcolm started a whole new trend among the wealthy and powerful rather than merely performing a rebellious, maverick act as Philip had always assumed? He was still determined to uncover what prompted Malcolm's change of heart over leaving New Paris, convinced the old man was hiding something. Malcolm had used the issue of funds to divert him just as he'd used the fuss over leaving New Paris as a smokescreen for something, Philip was sure of it.

Then he remembered his own temptations before leaving the space station and things fell into place.

He waited until they'd left the meeting with Catherine and were ensconced in a trendy bar somewhere within Home's Virtuality - all clean lines, subdued lighting and gleaming surfaces - before saying casually, "How do you intend communicating with him?"

"With whom, exactly?"

"The clone you left on New Paris."

"Ah, that."

"How are you going to support it?"

"Assuming I did leave such a clone in place, I wouldn't need to, not for any length of time anyway. Its only purpose would be to find out what it could about the Byrzaens, and, while ULAW might prefer to keep our new alien friends isolated at New Paris for now, that situation won't last forever. Were I to consider such a course, in order to cover the short term energy requirements, I might have, oh, I don't know... invested in a small generator and perhaps even some specialist hardware as soon as I reached New Paris, just in case."

Philip had to admire the old man's foresight. "I didn't even consider doing anything like that until we were on the verge of leaving."

"Don't beat yourself up about it. After all, I've been doing this for a hell of a lot longer than you have."

True enough. Presumably, Malcolm's clone would have to be abandoned once it had served its purpose and left to simply fade away. Philip considered the implications of that and wondered whether any version of him would willingly accept such a limited existence. Somehow he doubted it, but then wasn't that exactly what normal partials were expected to do? Fade away once their human original died and their purpose had been served. How aware were partials of their finite lives, and did they mind? The new perspective gained from this side of the virtual fence was highlighting moral issues Philip had previously never even realised existed.

"Your clone's all right with this?" he asked.

"What clone?" Malcolm grinned and winked, then added, "Don't worry, I've done this sort of thing before."

Really? When and why? Philip was quickly coming to appreciate how seriously he'd underestimated both this transhuman version of his father and the implications of the virtual world as a whole.

"It seems I've still got a lot to learn."

"That's where I come in."

"Are there any others like us?"

"No," Malcolm assured him, "not yet."

The audience with Catherine appeared to have solved one problem, at least. "I guess there'll be no need to tamper with my will now that we both have an income."

"Don't be so naïve, Philip. We can't rely on Catherine's successor or the one after that being so generous. You've got to start thinking long term. We're here for the duration."

A sobering thought, one which highlighted yet again how different this new life truly was.

A little later, Malcolm turned to him and said, "By the way, congratulations on having such foresight."

Philip stared, assessing possible meanings and settling on one. "The will?" He had no idea what Malcolm had done, or how much it had cost him, but he could think of nothing else which would prompt such a comment.

"A sizeable and highly sensible provision I'd say. Well done." Malcolm grinned.

Philip felt torn between conflicting reactions, emotions which felt just as strong as any he'd experienced in corporeal life. "Thank you," he said, giving voice to the more generous first. "They're going to think I'm a complete hypocrite," he then added, expressing the second. Philip had spoken out so vehemently and publicly against his father's decision to enhance his partial and live on in the virtual state, declaring it 'an egotistical abomination.' Yet now it would seem to everyone that all the while he had been planning to do exactly the same thing himself.

"Let them," Malcolm advised. "What difference is that going to make to you?"

"You're right. Force of habit." Another aspect of this new existence he would have to get used to. Public image had been so important to him for so long, whereas now, of course, it didn't really matter at all.

They were served by an improbably pretty waitress with black bobbed hair, a cute, upturned nose and dark bright eyes that gazed at him from beneath long, fluttering lashes.

Philip savoured a mouthful of the cold beer she'd brought; gently effervescent without being too gassy, while the aftertaste was malty without being too bitter.

"Good?" his father, asked.

"Yes," he conceded, "very good."

"I meant the beer, not the waitress," Malcolm said quietly.

"So did I," Philip assured him, which didn't prevent his gaze following her progress back to the bar and noting when she briefly glanced back to smile at him. That smile and the way she wiggled her perfectly rounded hips which developed from the narrowest of waists prompted Philip to wonder for the first time what sex was like here, but he decided that was one question he probably wouldn't ask his father.

When Philip first encountered the virtual bar known as The Death Wish, he'd assumed it to be unique, or at least reasonably so. Faced with the prospect of actually living here in Virtuality, he was quickly coming to appreciate just how wrong he'd been. The place was vast, and far more extensively developed than he had ever dreamed it could be.

Without Malcolm to act as guide, introducing him to this new, virtual existence, he would have been lost.

"The original programs, the foundations if you will, were written by humans," his father explained. "Many brilliant men and women contributed, but the AIs took it from there, building on all that we'd done, extending and enhancing, and then knitting all the fragments together. Without them, Home's Virtuality would still be a series of isolated pockets. It's the AIs that have built the bridges and filled in the blank spaces, who have pulled everything together into a whole, knitting a patchwork quilt that matches seamlessly. It's impossible to say where human construction ends and that of the AIs takes over."

"I'd no idea," was all Phillip could say. He remembered the spiral of events that had led to his murder in the corporeal world, beginning with his joyriding through the computer systems of his neighbours on the back of addictive narcotics and pilfered equipment. Would any of that have been necessary had he paid more attention to the virtual world? More specifically, could all that followed have been avoided if he'd been more accepting of Mal, his father's lingering partial?

Regrets were pointless at this stage, but he couldn't help wondering just how costly his stubbornness back then had been.

"Few people of our generations have," Malcolm replied.

"Really?" So it wasn't just him.

"Think about it. How many times have you heard your friends, contemporaries, or even the media discuss Virtuality?"

"Never."

"Precisely. Oh, there are the geeks and the tech-heads, but they're the exceptions. It's the kids, the teens and those who were teens themselves a couple of years ago, who have embraced Virtuality. Their avatars are the ones you'll find walking the streets and packing out the clubs. The meek might have inherited the earth, but the emerging generation are claiming Virtuality all for themselves. They'll be the first to grow up with this place as a part of their culture. Your generation were born a little too early and mine missed the shuttle by a good few decades, but right here, right now, we're catching a glimpse of the future. You mark my words."

There was something infectious about Malcolm's enthusiasm - always had been; it was one of the man's greatest strengths while he was alive, so why shouldn't this virtual version be the same? Yet Philip suspected there might be an element of wish-fulfilment at work here as well, that his father was overstating the import of Virtuality because it was now very much his home. He wanted the virtual world to be as important as the real, because his own relevance would then be elevated accordingly.

Not that Malcolm hadn't given him plenty to think about. Philip savoured another mouthful of beer, wondering whether a human or an AI had written the program responsible for such an excellent brew. He watched a drip of condensation trickle slowly down the curves of his glass. Were beer glasses deliberately contoured to mimic the female form or was that merely his libido talking, courtesy of the bob-haired waitress?

He glanced across at his father. Malcolm looked much as Philip remembered from the days of his childhood; a face more rounded than his own but with the same dark eyes, though they lacked the laughter lines memory had etched at their corners. The hair was a little lighter than Philip's, though still a rich brown, showing just a touch of grey at the temples and above the ears. "Your father will never grow old, just more distinguished," he remembered his mother once saying. This wasn't Malcolm in his later years but a man still in his prime, when the vigour and enthusiasm of youth hadn't yet deserted him but was tempered with maturity and experience. It struck Philip as revealing in many ways that this was the face Malcolm had selected for his transcended self. Until Malcolm's death, the partial had reflected his actual age. Only when, against all etiquette and convention, that partial had been enhanced to contain as much of him as science allowed did Kaufman Senior tweak his outward appearance.

Philip wondered now why his father had done so. Vanity seemed too glib a response. Could it have been for his son's benefit? Had Malcolm chosen to live on in the virtual world wearing the face that he reasoned Philip would most associate with happy childhood memories? The explanation had never occurred to him before, but it felt right now that it had.

Philip hadn't even thought to tinker with his own partial when, on his deathbed, he'd been persuaded to enhance it in order to transcend to virtual life. Phil had always been a little younger and a little more handsome than reality, not to mention more confident. Vanity, it seemed, wasn't banished by transcendence but was merely granted greater scope.

Malcolm looked around, caught his son watching him. "What?"

"Nothing," said Philip, and he smiled. "Just glad you're here, that's all."

"Me too, son, me too."

 

She was being chased through a nightmare landscape of industrial equipment... she was led, stumbling through a dark and musty chamber of looming protrusions... was strapped to a chair, a needle embedded in each arm... floating in zero gravity in a featureless sphere that offered no point of reference... sitting in a field of wild flowers, laughing, Louis laughing with her... lying on her back with something cold and damp covering her eyes, water pummelling her face, unable to breathe... was lying on her back in a soft and divinely comfortable bed, her hands clutching black silk sheets while her lover's weight pressed against her, his manhood inside her. The woman on her right, who was supporting her, turned to offer words of encouragement, revealing the dispassionate face of her torturer, which swiftly morphed into her brother, Louis, and then again into Jim Leyton, who leered at her. She whimpered as the world shifted disconcertingly yet again, screamed as her veins burned with the searing invasion of some new agent, spluttered and gagged as the water entered her lungs, moaned in the throes of orgasm as her lover erupted inside her...

Throughout it all she could hear somewhere in the background a composed, detached voice delivering what she knew to be a monologue of advice, insight and instruction, although the individual words and their meaning slipped past, frustratingly just beyond her reach.

"Mya?" This voice was louder, closer, intrusive. It didn't belong. "Mya, can you hear me?"

A woman's voice. Why wouldn't it leave her alone?

Her eyes flickered open, smarting at the brightness around her. She screwed them shut again.

"Dim the lights," a perceptive soul instructed. "She's coming round."

This time the level was tolerable, and she was able to focus on a face, a stranger who was at the same time vaguely familiar. Porcelain skin, dark eyes and delicate features which held a fragile yet exquisite beauty.

"Up the stimulants. Gradually." The same voice - a woman's - and it belonged to this familiar stranger.

She was aware of others in the room now, faceless people moving in the background.

"Thank you everyone, good job." The woman then sat back and the faceless folk departed.

Memories began to converge, knitting together sufficiently to present some clue to the recent past. She remembered the woman now, recalled being met by her as she tried to escape, features indistinct but recognisable beneath the visor of a shimmer suit, and there had been someone else: Jim - unless that last was another aspect of her delusions.

Somehow she'd managed to hold everything together as they ghosted through the bowels of Sheol Station, and she could even recall being hurried onto a shuttle. After that, nothing. Until she woke up here.

If that really had been Jim Leyton helping to rescue her, where was he now?

Strength started to return, her thoughts grew clearer. She struggled to sit up.

"Take it easy," the woman said, her face coming into view once more.

Mya ignored the advice and continued until she'd wrestled her body into a semblance of sitting. The other woman made no effort to help, for which she was grateful.

"I... I want to thank you." It felt strange to speak, to utter any sounds that were born of her own will and offered to another freely rather than being forced from her lips. She looked at this woman, who had saved her sanity if not her life. "But I don't even know your name."

The woman smiled. "Then let me introduce myself. Hello, Mya, I'm Kethi."

That rang a bell, but a distant one, and Mya was struggling to recall why the name sounded so familiar. Then she had it. "Kethi?" She frowned, staring at her rescuer, trying to marry what memory told her with the reality of the slender, beautiful woman she saw before her.

"Yes. Why, is that a problem?"

"No, it's just that... I always thought K-E-T-H-I," she pronounced each letter individually, "was a project, not a person."

"Did you, now?" The girl's smile held more than a hint of bitterness. She seemed to consider the comment before saying, "Well, in a sense I suppose I am. To be honest, I'm a bit of both."