Continue Online (Book 1, Memories) (12 page)

“
Wait,”
I muttered.

Beth
had bracelets on. I jogged back to the van in a hurry and panted.
Exercise was not something I was used to. Maybe getting fit in this
game would help me in real life.

“
Hal,
do we have any of the EXR-Sevens?”

“
Three
pairs. Would you like to test them as well?” Hal Pal inquired.

“
Yes,
please,” I said.

“
Affirmative,
User Legate. Please remember to file a feedback form upon return.”

My
eyes rolled. Hal Pal either didn’t notice my exasperation or
chose not to comment. It had before, since the AI had expression
recognizing code embedded somewhere in the depths of its scripting.
AI programming was a problem for those greater than I. My polishing
skills would be top notch by the end of our eventual takeover.
Thoughts of shoe shining and calling robots 'Gov’ put a hum in
my mind.

Bands
went around both wrists. Another set went right above the ankles.
Physically they felt almost intangible. Small lights littered the
outside of my sets showing connectivity. They connected with nerve
endings and registered impulses. I laid down, reached over, and
pressed the button. One world drifted away as if passing out. The
other came into focus moments later.

Now
I was standing in my virtual Atrium looking at a package that was
entirely too big. This was Christmas come early and I had the
mentality of a five-year-old. Wrapping paper was torn into shreds.
False cardboard was ripped. Popcorn tossed aside as I dove into the
huge box to find my prize.

There
was certainly no cat inside.

An
obsidian business card was my prize. I dug through a giant box filled
with packing peanuts for this small item. Words were scrawled across
and completely illegible.

I
focused on the card and tried to understand the gibberish. Was this
hand written? Tilting the card revealed an ink like sheen.
Considering this was digital the effect was kind of amazing. There
were very definite letters, but none looked normal. They had strange
bends and twists in unexpected places. This was likely an actual
language but which one was beyond me.

“
ARC?”

“User
Legate.
Awaiting request.” The ARC registered vocal commands issued
while logged in. It could do text as well, popping up like Beth’s
in-game display had. Most of those options were turned off when I
first got this shipped.

“
Translate
this?” I waved the card.

“
Command
not executable.”

“
Huh?"
I shook my head. ‘Huh’ was not a recognized keyword to
the machine.

"Repeat?”
My mind boggled at the computers denial. Either this wasn’t
something that could be translated or maybe it was encrypted.

“
Command
not executable.”

“
Smug
machine,” I muttered. Luckily it didn’t have an AI like
Hal Pal did.

I
flipped over the card again. The design was a deep obsidian. Golden
lettering that looked almost liquid. Light reflected off of the desk
lamp to one side of my bed. There wasn’t a lamp there in real
life, this was an adaptation from the Atrium.

“
Any
hints?” I asked the ARC interface. It didn’t respond.

“
Negative,
User Legate.”

I
lifted the box and spilled everything out. My hands scattered around
the packing material. The box was torn further, inside out, thrown
around to one side of the room. Now I was upset. All that build up,
all that interest and play time for a card that wasn’t
understandable.

From
one side of the room to the other went the path. I ignored the
blinking phone which meant I had a message. There was a mess all over
the floor that got kicked around the room as I paced. Analyzing the
packing peanuts for a pattern or other hints didn't help me either.
They looked normal and real. Packing peanuts had mostly been done
away with due to recycling concerns over five years ago. This
reminded me of an old test, how to keep an idiot busy. The card would
read 'turn over' and have the exact same words on the backside. I
flipped it over. The backside was blank which meant at least I was
being spared that indignity.

Time
passed while I logged out more than once and stormed around my tiny
house in frustration. Eventually, I logged back into the Atrium and
pondered what to do. Time wasn't condensed at this stage of the ARC.
That feature was only available in certain programs.

Finally,
I noticed something odd. There was a door exiting my Atrium that
hadn't been there before. More blinks ensued as I struggled to recall
the last time there had been a new installation on my ARC. Most of
the programs I had all used one exit point. For me, that exit point
was tied to my dance program. Sports programs had never interested
me, and I wasn't one of those teenagers who felt the need to learn a
martial art.

Wait.

The
left door was lit up. Curiosity brimmed as I neared the door and
ventured a peek inside. This was right where my dance program was.
The right door was new but completely dark. Why had the dance program
initialized? Was someone in my Atrium?

I
waved my hands and checked out the internet connections. No visitors
were inside. The only people who ever access it were family, and Beth
was too busy murdering monsters in the very game I had hoped to be
playing by now.

"Hello?"
I questioned.

Swing
music was clearly playing through the speakers. Mostly stuff from
seventy years ago which was an era that belonged to my great
grandparents. Long ago I bought that program and a few others to
expand my dance skills into more genres. Never before had this
program started without a command. I walked inside with my mystery
card in one hand. The lights were up high, clothes were straight out
of a black and white movie. It sounded like there was a live band
playing nearby.

The
image of my computer generated fiancée dressed in a frilly
piece of clothing made me smile. That was not like her at all. A
sundress at most and even those were rare. She waved as we made eye
contact. That was new. Maybe there was a patch without my knowledge.
The ARC was good at doing that when I looked away for too long. I
waved back.

She
held out a hand. I shrugged, put away the card in a pocket and
danced. Happily I put the confusing mystery out of my mind for a bit.
The song changed to something brisker. Soon I was swinging her around
in spins, dips, and other moves practiced over endless lonely hours.
Then our dance was something slower. We danced close. Her head lay
against my chest rocking to the music of another century.

"I
miss you," I whispered, trying not to feel wounded. Dancing like
this made me feel like she was still with me. Losing my sense of
place was too easy. Some mornings I woke up thinking the whole
terrible event had been a dream.

"I
know, Grant." A whisper came from her sounding exactly like
every memory that had haunted me over the years.

I
pulled away in confusion. This program never spoke back. It wasn't
designed to. It couldn't. I had uttered that confession time and time
again over the years and never once heard anything. The computerized
image of my fiancée smiled, looked at the doorway a program
shouldn't realize was there. A heartbeat later she went still,
completely lifeless and dulled in color.

"Babe?"
Today was not my day. This was one emotional sledgehammer after
another.

Crashing
came from the doorway back in my Atrium. Then something like a metal
pan spinning to a slow stop. Next was glass hitting the floor and
shattering. I backed up slowly to the door behind me while staring at
the stilled image of my fiancée. Music dimmed from a signal I
never sent.

Something
wonky was going on.

At
the door, I turned around and tried to put the haunting portrayal
behind me. To move forward and face the next problem instead of
becoming stuck like I had in the past. That was what my last year of
therapy focused on. Move forward, plan accordingly, don’t get
stuck in the mire behind.

My
Atrium, a virtual replication of my house, was an even bigger mess
than it had been. Now way more than packing peanuts scattered across
the floor. Items were knocked off of shelves and dishes splayed all
over. Normally all of this was kept in perfect order. Default Atrium
programming didn't allow broken glass.

I
had no clue where to even find a broom and dustpan. A garbage bin was
easy. The Atrium had one for programs you no longer wanted. Users
could pull a program down from the shelf and toss it away. Digital
confirmation of an action time-honored among computers. I tried to
use pieces of cardboard to clean up the shattered glass. It went
terribly. This place couldn't stay messy like this, though.
Otherwise, once I logged in, the Atrium might try to subject me to
the simulated pain of stepping on shards of glass.

At
least it might. That should have been beyond the Atrium's
programming, but here I was cleaning up shattered dishes after
hearing a computer program talk when it wasn't programmed to. Worse,
the computer had used a near perfect replica of her voice.

"ARC."
I triggered the machine response.

"Awaiting
input."

"Can
you replay what happened here?"

"Negative."
There was even an error bonk of noise. "New program interference
detected. Alternate patterns have been input. Scans show all levels
of local software have been impacted."

"I
only have one piece of software," I muttered in response.
Everything else was deleted except a few house programs.

I
guess the van had Hal Pal and a few simulated board games. Those were
on a separate network thankfully. Hal Pal's programming was so
insanely far beyond me that the thought of changing it was
frightening.

"Is
it a virus?" Worry flooded me as the thought occurred far too
late.

"Scans
confirm this is not the work of a virus."

"Are
you sure?" I asked.

"Affirmative."

"System
update?" Unexpected patching might have added new features. To
my knowledge, the ARC wasn't scheduled for any overhauls soon.

“
Negative.”
The machine response sounded stiff.

"When
did this start?"

"Recordings
indicate all changes occurred after contact with the card in your
pocket."

That
was pretty specific. ARC was basically admitting that whatever was
installed by the box was at fault, without telling me how long this
had been going on, or what exactly had changed. I checked the clock.
The Atrium had been loaded for maybe thirty minutes. So far I had
torn open a box, danced with my fiancée, and been subjected to
an unexplained mess.

I
grabbed water and a towel from my mostly unused hot tub program.
Finally, there was a use for last year's performance award. Water
went into my one good cup that remained. The towel was curled around
a mess of broken glass and slowly gathered everything up. Without a
real broom, this was as close as I would get.

"ARC."

"Awaiting
input." Maybe the machine could be given a new voice. An actor
or someone popular might spice it up. I could look up sports
commentators.

"How
much does a broom program cost?" I said.