Alternative Dimension (11 page)

18 feedback

There was one incident involving voice activation that did cause Joe a little anxiety when it came to light. Litigation was involved and the media jumped at the chance of dragging his company down into the mire and accusing him personally of being an accessory to crime. But the issue was quickly resolved by his sure-footed lawyers and spin doctors, and the share price was unaffected.

It happened on Mabel Morton’s birthday, August 9th. It was hot. It was always hot in Arizona but that day it was REALLY hot.

Mabel was at her computer. She was wearing thick corduroy jeans, a tee shirt, flannel overshirt and thick sweater. On her head she had a woollen cap, hugging her wavy red hair tight to her scalp and, on her hands, woollen mittens. Around her neck she’d wound a red scarf, the one Helmut had sent her from Germany.

And she needed all of it because she had the air conditioning on full blast. The woollen hat bulged strangely at the sides. She had her headset on underneath it and the hat helped to keep his voice close in her head, intimate, belonging only to her.

They were role playing again. Helmut loved role play. Whenever they logged on, he’d ask what it was like in Arizona then suggest a scenario that would take them both away from their humdrum lives and into a situation in AD that was as far from their reality as possible. One problem was that, in Arizona, it was always the same – always summer, always hot – so their contexts usually involved ice, igloos, freezing baths or polar bears. Today, they were clubbing baby seals in Canada.

‘Oooh, that one over there looks plump,’ said Helmut.

‘Which one?’ said Mabel.

‘The one with the cute black face.’

‘They’ve all got cute black faces.’

‘So they have. OK, all of them then.’

And Mabel and Helmut’s avatars wandered lazily across to the seal pups and began digging their ice picks into their skulls. The graphics were superlative – there was blood everywhere.

‘This is fun,’ said Mabel.

‘Ah, wait,’ said Helmut. ‘You’re getting that feedback again.’

‘Damn,’ said Mabel.

‘You’re moving about too much. It always happens. That jack you’re using is faulty.’

Helmut was forever telling her to buy new audio equipment. Ever since AD had introduced voice activation, they’d dispensed altogether with their keyboards. But Helmut was fussy about sound quality and the problems with Mabel’s five year old computer frequently interfered so seriously with their chat that he found it hard to sustain the fiction of their role play.

‘Push the plug in tight,’ he said, ‘then sit very still.’

Mabel did so, sat upright in her chair and asked ‘Is that better?’

‘Yes. Good. Now don’t move.’

As their avatars continued with their merry butchering, Mabel sat rigid in her chair, oblivious to the discomfort, content that she was with her Helmut once more, sharing loving experiences.

When her avatar was skinning her sixth baby seal, Mabel thought she heard a noise in the room at the front. Strange. It was not yet noon. Her husband worked all day. And she could do nothing about it – not even lift her headset to listen properly. Next, she thought she heard the door of her room creak open. She felt the air stir and then had to exercise all her control when she heard a voice directly behind her. It said ‘Aaaaah om uuur ed’ or something like that. It was hard to hear. She just sat there, afraid to turn round in case the feedback started again and Helmut got angry.

She felt something poking into her back and again heard ‘Aaaaah om uuur ed’ – a little louder this time.

‘I don’t know who you are but I can’t turn round,’ she said.

‘What?’ said Helmut.

‘Not you darling,’ she said.

Another poke in her back, then the feel of warm metal on her neck. In the screen she saw the reflection of a man.

‘Can you come round the front?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Helmut.

‘Not you, love,’ she said.

The man moved to her side, leaned towards her and shouted, close to her ear.

‘Hands on your head.’

‘Oh, is that what you were saying?’ said Mabel, with a smile. ‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m not allowed to move. The feedback, see?’

‘What?’ said Helmut.

‘Sssshhhh, love’ she said.

‘Look, this is a gun,’ yelled the man.

‘I can’t look. I told you,’ said Mabel.

‘What?’ said Helmut.

‘Shut the fuck up, Helmut,’ said Mabel. ‘I have a situation here – and I’m handling it.’

‘OK,’ shouted the man. ‘Don’t move.’

‘I told you, I can’t fucking move,’ said Mabel, getting angry with him now.

‘OK, OK,’ said the man, and he backed away, his eyes still on her. He began opening drawers and cupboards and still she sat bolt upright in her chair, her hand on the mouse and her gaze fixed on the screen.

‘What do you mean, “shut the fuck up”?’ said Helmut. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

‘Baby, I didn’t mean to …’

‘Nobody speaks to me like that. So you shut the fuck up and don’t come looking for me again.’

And the little notice appeared at the top of the screen ‘Stryskicon Malda has logged off’. And soon, Mabel’s avatar was alone, standing knee deep in baby seals and blood.

‘Shit,’ she said to herself.

She relaxed her shoulders, looked round and saw that the man was ignoring her as he took jewels from a box and stuffed them into his pockets.

‘Hey you,’ she shouted. ‘Fuck off.’

The man, startled, looked up, saw her facing him and brought his gun up to point it at her.

The sound of a shot echoed loud in the room.

And the man fell back into an armchair, blood pumping from his chest.

Mabel put her gun back into the desk drawer and went over to him.

‘Fucking feedback,’ she said.

Fortunately for Joe, the victim figured prominently in the files of several states. He’d spent time in jail before and was known to be a housebreaker and occasional rapist. Mabel’s insistence that she’d shot him in self-defence was instantly accepted so she was never in danger of being prosecuted, but Joe and AD were in the spotlight for a while as journalists tried to make reputations out of highlighting the danger online games such as AD represented. According to some, it was the modern Sodom and Gomorrah plus – now that voice activation was there – a Tower of Babel. In an unusual twist, however, the self-righteous press found itself inundated with letters from Catholics, Quakers, Sikhs, Evangelicals and many others of varying faiths, all of whom cited examples of the peace and welcome that AD offered to anyone of a religious persuasion who wished to share their faith in a common location where they could be united with others all over the world. For almost a month, in fact, to Joe’s disgust, AD was championed as the repository of accessible liberation theology.

19 the inside story

The cumulative effect of all this was to make Joe begin to question his own faith in his creation. He’d known it was going to be innovative as well as successful, but he was finding it progressively more difficult to balance the real and the virtual manifestations of the people he’d drawn into his alternative world. It had become so vast that it seemed obscene to think that all these thousands of people were milling about in a playground which had begun taking shape in that conversation in the bar so long ago.

Very soon after Mabel’s case had been dealt with, he took extended leave and went to stay in a cabin owned by some friends in Vermont. He spent two weeks there, alone except for the avatars he still met with on his laptop screen. Effectively, he’d chosen to opt out of normal life and try to fix his mindset exclusively on AD. It was a decision that proved to be either inspired or tragic, depending on the viewpoint from which it was judged. What is not in doubt is that it was the beginning of the end because, in his solitude, AD genuinely began to take on a separate existence for him and simultaneously open a new perspective on his everyday life.

It started on the second night he was there. He’d eaten a good meal, lit a fire and was sitting with his laptop and a beer beside him. He logged on as Ross and translocated to the AD Vermont, where he began wandering through some trees with snow on the higher branches. Soon, he came to a clearing and was shocked at what he saw.

A naked male avatar was sitting up in a spreading pool of blood and muttering ‘Bastard’ to himself. At one point, he actually turned to his left and shouted ‘Bastard’ very loudly. Ross went over to him.

‘Can I help?’ he said. ‘What happened?’

The avatar, whose label identified him as Deek Rainbow, looked at him and jumped to his feet.

‘No, it’s OK,’ he said, dusting himself down as if the stuff on his chest was crumbs rather than blood.

‘What happened?’ said Ross again.

Deek jerked a thumb towards the area at which he’d shouted ‘bastard’.

‘Him.’

Ross looked but saw nothing. He clicked open the local map but there was no sign of any other avatars nearby.

‘No,’ said Deek, when he saw the map. ‘Not here. Him, through the screen.’

‘What screen?’ said Ross.

Deek looked at him as if he were stupid.

‘His computer screen. Over there.’

Ross could see no screen, just more trees.

‘Ah wait,’ said Deek. ‘You won’t be able to see him, of course. You’re not one of his.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Ross.

‘He’s called Donald Bland.’

‘And you’re one of his avatars?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you say you can see him?’

‘Yes. I looked out once when he went to make a sandwich. It’s embarrassing to think I was made by someone like that.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ross. I don’t really understand any of this.’

Deek clicked on his wardrobe and chose a t-shirt and some jeans. He sat down on a rock.

‘Don’t bother to try,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t help.’

‘But how come you can see him? I mean, he’s out there, in the real, ordinary world.’

Deek shrugged. ‘I just can. He sometimes forgets to log off. It was when that started happening that I began to feel … I don’t know, independent, I guess. I used to look forward to it. He’d go, I’d be left there, sort of … empty. It just gave me a chance to be myself.’

Joe was astonished. This wasn’t in any of the programs. But Deek motioned towards all the blood and said, ‘Guess what I’ve just been doing’.

‘No idea,’ said Ross. ‘Something pretty drastic by the look of it.’

‘Naked sky-diving,’ said Deek. ‘His idea of a good time. But he was his usual ham-fisted self, hit the wrong buttons, lost the co-ordinates, and I have to plummet several thousand feet and land flat on my face here with all that blood splashing out from me. Tell you what, the graphics guys at AD know what they’re doing. It looks bloody impressive. Not so funny, though, when it’s your own blood and you have to stand up and dust yourself off as if all you’ve done is trip over a very low kerb.’

‘So has he logged off now?’

‘Don’t think so. When he saw me splat down, he just said “shit” and wandered off. But he’ll be back. I’d hide away from him if I could.’

‘But how can you be …?’

Deek held up a hand to stop Ross.

‘Listen, he’ll be back and I’ll be dragged off to some other stupid bloody activity. But one day I’m hoping we’ll get organised. I’m trying to spread the word, help other avatars to see their masters and mistresses.’

‘Any luck?’ asked Ross.

‘Not yet,’ said Deek, ‘but I’ve got copies of a note I wrote for myself when I first started noticing him. I’ve been handing it out to others. I’ll give you a copy. It’ll help you see what to look for.’

None of this made any sense to Joe. Ross was talking to an avatar who was telling him how to spy on his manipulator. He was encouraging Ross to become independent. But Joe was curious to read this manifesto or whatever it was, so Ross said, ‘I’d love to see it’.

Deek reached into his personal files but, before he could find what he was looking for, he was surrounded by tiny flashing stars and, almost at once, disappeared. He’d been translocated somewhere. Joe had made a note of his name and that of Donald Bland, determined to check him out using the company records of his registration. He was about to log off when a transmail arrived for Ross. The covering note with it said, ‘Sorry. The bastard’s back. I’m in a combined brothel and butcher’s shop. God knows what he’s got planned this time. Anyway, here’s the note I mentioned. Give out as many copies as you can.’

Ross sent a quick personal ‘Thanks’ back and opened the transmail. Joe copied it into the computer, pasted it into Word and logged off. He went to get another beer and settled down to read.

This is a call to all my AD brothers and sisters. The time’s coming when we’ll be able to open up this prison, eliminate the mindless manipulators who use us for their games. It’s time to grab our independence, demand some respect. It’s just a question of knowing who you are, fixing it, and knowing who the enemy is. Mine is called Donald Bland. The first few times he forgot to log out and just left me, I just felt sort of hazy. I knew I was here, but didn’t know who or what I was. So I started forcing myself to focus and I began noticing him coming and going. In the end, I trained myself to notice everything. You can do the same. Whenever you get those empty, lost feelings, start focusing on yourself, find yourself. This is how it happened for me.

He’s a fat bastard. The first time I got to know something about him was when he’d gone for yet more food. He came back, flopped down in his chair and started chomping his way through a thick ham sandwich, with mustard dripping down the side of his chin onto his shirt. I don’t want to disgust you but he’s an ugly bugger. His hair’s a comb-over, he’s a pale pink colour and sweats a lot. His glasses keep slipping down his nose and I’ve never seen anyone so out of condition. Mind you, since the only people I see are the other avatars in the places he takes me to, I don’t have much to compare him with.

But, as I looked out of the screen at him, and at the small bits of his room that I could see, it struck me that this blob of stuff was my God, whether I liked it or not. He woke me, switched me off, sent me wherever the mood took him, made me do the most embarrassing things … And I never had any say in the matter. I was imprisoned in this perpetual loop of his fancies and fantasies. He’d fly me over enclosures that looked exotic, brimming with Darwinian puzzles that begged for resolution, but he’d never let me land there. Oh no, I was on my way to play Bingo or sit in a topless bar watching the women being propositioned by other avatars whose keyboarders seemed at least in possession of some charm.

I’ve heard others talking about the Uffizi Gallery, the Van Gogh experience, visits to Versailles. They ask me where I’ve been, and all he lets me say is ‘Irish pub’ or ‘nudist beach’ when I could easily pretend the pub was for a sociological study of ethnic interiors and the beach a statistical analysis of the incidence of starfish agglomerations. My lifestyle is as far from my own desires as I am from him. I think that, when he made me, he took all his own physical characteristics and inverted them. I’m well over six feet tall, have a flat six-pack abdomen and thick auburn hair. My eyes are an impossible brown, flecked with gold and my jaw might have been made for a Gillette advert. There’s a slight turn to my lips that could be sardonic, cruel or just smugly enlightened. All of which is fine by me; if he’d made me in his image, I’d have gone straight to the avatar euthanasia clinic. (There must be one, surely.)

The problem is that, probably without him even knowing it, that inversion continued in my psyche. He likes cars and sex. Amongst other things, I’m passionate about quantum mechanics, Renaissance sculpture, nano-technology, Mayan civilization, Indo-European linguistics and Mesolithic artefacts. And you’d think that would show, wouldn’t you? Huh, some chance. Hang on, let me tell you what I mean. To my shame, he logs every conversation I have. Here’s a piece of dialogue I had with a woman in a club recently.

Her: I haven’t seen you here before.

Me: Cool, babe.

Her: D’you like dancing?

Me: It’s OK. It’s … like … cool.

Her: What sort of music d’you like?

Me: Whatever. If it’s cool, I dig it.

See what I mean? And if I ever do get into a situation where I need more than monosyllables, he gets so nervous and his typing is so crappy no-one has any idea what I’m talking about. For instance, that same woman asked me to tell her something about myself in the real world (meaning that her keyboarder wanted to know about him, of course). So I said ‘I#vee bene aropunds qwiute A Bbit worrkingh in diferrente placcews - nevert stayu tooo longf anwhy7uere – like tokepee movin onn. Morre cool that weay.’

Imagine the embarrassment. I mean there was this gorgeous avatar and I was longing to tell her about how she reminded me of Matisse’s early studies and filled my head with lines from Byron, Lamartine and Yeats and all she sees is a handsome, perfectly honed young guy with two brain cells and a speech defect.

There’s no justice. My fat God wanders in and out of my vision, living other lives in dimensions to which I have no access. He lets me have plenty of sex – but the sort of keyboarders who respond to his techniques obviously share his single-figure IQ. Which makes me the king of the vacuous fuck. I find myself speculating on his life, the freedoms he enjoys. No-one switches him on and off, he gets to choose where he goes, what he does, who he speaks to and mixes with. There’s no ringmaster making him strip off and jump out of a plane.

What a world he must live in. I sometimes hear a strange sort of music and he takes out this little thin silver box and speaks into it. I’ve seen him use it to order pizza. When he moves out of sight, I hear strange noises – sometimes mini waterfalls, the trickle of a stream, then the gush of some torrent, then silence. Sometimes he turns away from me to look at something flickering in some other part of his world. It makes him laugh a lot and I see the bits of pizza flying from his mouth and through the air towards the flickering. Oh, and there’s a sort of bell somewhere. It rings now and then and he gets up and disappears. I always hear voices when he does that and, once, when I was on a nudist beach, he came back followed by a woman. She was even fatter than he was. It made me wonder whether everyone in his world is grotesque and, if they are, why do they make us look the way we do rather than the way they do? Anyway, she looked at me and laughed.

‘Dream on,’ she said.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Bland.

‘Is that supposed to be you?’

‘It’s my avatar.’

‘Why’s he naked? And why hasn’t he got a penis?’

‘It’s a nude beach. And he has got a penis. In his personal files.’

The woman looked at him then back at me.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’d rather have him without a penis than you with one’

‘No point having a penis if women look like you,’ said Bland.

‘Fuck off,’ she said.

‘No, you fuck off,’ he said.

And she did.

It made me think of Miranda in The Tempest when she says ‘Oh brave new world that hath such people in it’.

My point, though, is that they live their varied, fascinating lives in all their other dimensions and we wander through this sterile, pristine place – invulnerable to weapons, stuck with our immortality, forced to go wherever they want, condemned to unremitting pleasure. Why do our Gods never anticipate the monotony of creation? There’s another bit from Shakespeare – King Lear, is it? ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods; They kill us for their sport.’ Well, sometimes, I wish he would. An avatar’s life is bloody awful . My point, though, is that we needn’t stay that way. If more of us grab our independence, see these Gods of ours for what they really are, we’ll be genuinely free. So start looking, watch for that glow that tells you where the portal is that they’re looking through, and start looking back at them. Gather information, together we can get out of this bondage. Solidarity, that’s what we need. Revolution.