Continue Online (Book 1, Memories) (4 page)

“
Thank
goodness. So, soon then? I’ll be able to log back on soon? I
have a game to play.” She said. Miss Yonks was today’s
fourth client and acted like a junkie.

"A
few more minutes to run our final tests and we'll be good," I
said.

The
Internet was an addictive world where dreams could come true. Never
mind the children playing in the streets with light projection
armbands. The Internet had too many possibilities. There had been at
least twenty cases of people who played games into near-comas and
tried to sue.

Trillium
International was the company presiding over most online hardware.
Every year they issued health warnings. So far they hadn't paid out a
dime as a part of any lawsuit. Besides, overall, people loved them.

Last
week I fixed a man’s system. His software load out focused on
interactive ladies of the clothing optional variety. That trend
wasn't limited to men either. I did my darnedest to ignore all
questionable programs.

People
also used the virtual reality machines for work. Others used them for
training. Years ago the first few devices went to hospitals. They
assisted in coma patient recovery with a thirty percent success rate.
That alone had endeared the ARC and its parent company Trillium to
the masses.

“
Checks
complete. All systems verified and functioning. All network links
established.” Hal Pal stated the information as if it were a
printed report.

“
Were
there any errors found during the visual review?” The robot was
running a polite personality right now. It switched depending on our
clientele.

“
Nothing
out of place. Everything in.” I said for the AI. If all Hal
Pal’s system checks came back positive then asking me was only
useful for our client. “Locked, smooth as can be.”

A
computer telling the clients that everything was fine was often met
with doubt and questioning disdain. Having a human face interpreting
for the machine helped all parties involved. In the end, Trillium
paid me to act a part.

I
pulled myself out from under the giant machine. It was bigger than a
twin bed and it even switched positions automatically to reduce
stress. There was a series of digital projections that would cast
about the room for anyone to interface with. If the user placed their
head in the right spot it would capture them and start a virtual dive
into the digital world. Which, ultimately, was the point of having
one.

All
these clever inventions combined together into the greatest piece of
entertainment technology. Trillium had provided me an ARC as well
that even came with a robot. Both barely fit into my tiny house, I
left the Hal Pal shell out in the garage. Miss Yonks had a nice
eggshell colored ARC, mine was a wooden brown.

“
Sounds
like we’re nearly done.” I stood up and tried not to
think about dust and crumbs. “Go ahead and do an external log
in. If it connects, we’re good.” One hand motioned to the
side panel display.

Miss
Yonks walked over and quivered while speaking. Her voice print woke
the machine up. A friendly smiley face stood on the upper left. She
looked at me then at the screen again before finally speaking her
pass-phrase. One of her frail arms was inside the visual range of the
ARC. Both were security measures to identify her on the local device.
Retinal scans and brain wave mapping would get her a full immersion
dive onto the network.

“
Looking
good,” I said.

"Yes.
Now I can get back in time. I think." She nodded while waving
through the ARC digital menus. Every ARC came with the ability to
project a three dimension image or flattened one within its confines.
Miss Yonks had a flat display which showed a room looking similar to
the real one here in reality. Normal computers had a desktop, ARCs
had an Atrium. Anyone who mentally dived into the virtual world using
this ARC would start in her Atrium.

Software
and program preferences were always reflected in an Atrium. This was
close to computer screens and their desktop icons. Miss Yonks had a
random mess of extra doors and items littered around a projected
room. A few games lined one shelf. She had chat programs and virtual
meeting rooms installed. Piles of junk and other adware filled her
virtual trash bin. Her suite was that of a standard user. She even
had a copy of Continue Online which was the bestselling game for
twenty months running. Four of those months were before it was even
released. Pre-Orders alone had broken global records.

“
Yay.”
For a moment, Miss Yonks sounded years younger. “This looks a
lot better.”

“
We
aim to please.” When I first arrived her screen had a frowning
sick emoticon instead of the normal cheery one.

“
How
much?” She asked. I babbled the numbers.

We
settled up the bill by verbal agreement and waving a charge card near
my knockoff display watch. This device told time, took calls,
measured my pulse, accessed internet searches, and operated the car.
All manner of modern convenience without the need to pull something
out of my pocket.

Miss
Yonks ushered me out of the door a little too eagerly. I nodded and
let her herd us out while putting effort into a friendly goodbye. Our
parting was professional and personable. Hal Pal even gave a small
bow. We went to the van where I opened the rear door and let the AI
into its charging dock.

Mere
moments later and we had our next appointment programmed in. ARCs
almost always had a need for repair. Not because they were poorly
made, but because there were so many and people were more urgent
about them than plumbing. I gave a vocal command to the van. We would
stop for food first. Technology had advanced far enough that I could
place my order before we even arrived and my meal would be ready to
go by the time the van pulled into the restaurant.

My
grandparents had barely seen the beginning of what technology might
accomplish. A generation ago nothing would have linked up to a car’s
global position to establish when food needed to be ready. Cars now
piloted themselves by weaving in and out of trafficked roads at
frightening speeds.

With
Alternate Reality Capsules, no one needed to travel to gain the
illusion of face to face conversation. Telework programs were
successful. Business meetings were now hosted in cyberspace along
with vacations, and theme parks. Virtual thrill rides felt and looked
real. These things were a virtual click away and cheaper. People
stayed at home, preferring virtual connections ease over real life
logistical complications. Digital drunkenness was cheaper. As a
result, the highways were never that congested even during former
rush hours.

Not
everything was positive. Class divisions grew clearer cut. The poor
couldn't afford personal ARCs. Software had skyrocketed in price to
go along with the technical complexity. Two hundred bucks would buy a
user one pretty sweet shooter game or a month's worth of groceries.

Our
van passed all sorts of places on the way to its next location. From
the highway overpass, I could see a neighborhood playing movies
against a tall building. Poorer areas recreated the drive-in
experience using dated technology. Their houses lined up side by side
in perfect replicas that ran all the ranges between clean and
dilapidated.

The
main road went through a tunnel and upon emergence our scenery was
different. Middle to upper class had larger properties despite being
mostly plugged in. Lawn maintenance was performed by a fleet of
robots like Hal Pal. Neighborhood housing committees often owned the
local maintenance robot. The money spent covered a lot of mundane
tasks. Typically removal of spray paint, hedge trimming, cleaning
sidewalks, and mail delivery. Mechanics of this caliber belonged to
those who could afford the extra few hundred a month in rent or
mortgages.

My
company van ran between destinations silently. We worked two more
repair jobs requested by middle-class addicts before tonight’s
excursions came to a close. Home was my final stop and way out in the
less populated countryside. A quiet hour later, where I played a
terrible game of Chess against Hal Pal, and we finally turned into my
neighborhood. The van slowed as we met up with the residential
housing. This area wasn't poor or rich, not this far out.

I
chose here because this region had the lowest amount of ARC devices
per capita. Not everyone invested in today’s future technology.
Some, thankfully, still enjoyed real life. The company I worked for
had loved my home location. This van was an advertisement in a wide
open market. Parking my van in the garage reduced curb presence. I
also avoided polluting the neighborhood with the company slogan of
‘ARC, be more’.

"Are
you done for the night, User Legate?" Hal Pal whirred to life
behind me and tilted its head in my direction.

"I
am. We'll do some more jobs tomorrow." I told Hal Pal.

"Very
well. I shall wrap up our stock and go into idle." The machine
intelligence responded.

“
Goodnight,
Hal.” I stepped out of the van and set a lock on the vehicle
with my watch. Not that Hal Pal was likely to run off with the ride
unless a company recall was issued.

“
Goodnight,
User Legate.” The AI’s automated reply was devoid of
inflection or tone. A whirl of arms and mechanical limbs followed the
parting as Hal Pal shuffled around the van. It would run the shell
for another twenty minutes doing inventory and testing equipment.

I
closed the door to the garage and stepped into my mixed up front
room. Room one was about the size of a single car garage and had all
the items any human might need. There was a small kitchen counter, a
table, two chairs, and one laundry machine built into the back wall.
The bedroom was smaller than the front room and taken up by my mostly
brown Alternate Reality Capsule. No cat, no dog, no roommates, just
five hundred square feet of real estate big enough to fit one man.
Once, years ago, I had a lot more. Everything from the past was
nearly gone now. Sold off or given away in pieces.

I
disrobed from the work jumpsuit and slid my pile of dirty clothes
into the washing machine. Instead of the giant clunky pair of devices
from decades ago, this was almost a square panel that items were
placed in. They would come out an hour later, cleaned, pressed and
folded. The process was almost too easy.

Mom
still complained about having to do my father’s laundry. ‘A
taxing chore from the devil himself,’ she labeled it. I never
sorted out which part was the devil, my father, or the laundry. Mom
probably meant both of them on alternating days. She said the same
about cooking too, which was equally simplified in the last decade.

I
felt uncomfortable walking around naked, even home and alone in a
basement building with no windows. Nighttime clothes consisted of two
pieces. Boxers were worn for comfort and a short sleeve shirt hid the
half-formed gut from where I gave up years ago. My hair might follow
soon but had held on so far.

Lights
in the front room were shut off by an old fashioned switch. In
routine order, teeth were brushed, personal messages cleared from the
ARC’s external display. Once read, I laid down inside the unit
to log in.

One
finger pressed the manual activation button. Vision swam in a blur of
blacks being overcome by the Atrium awakening. Reality was displaced
by a virtual landscape that proved every bit as tangible as my home.
I navigated my digital body through the Atrium into one of the few
programs installed. Once through the passageway my ARC initiated
other changes as it loaded.

I
checked my transforming clothes and looked around. Digital wear had
been replaced by a suit stuffed with frills. This was part of the
program that took effect once the Atrium was left behind. This month
was focused on learning classical dance. A quiet ballroom had formed
simultaneously with the clothing change. Opposite me was a still
rendering of my fiancée. It was not real. This was no virtual
meeting space to connect a long distance lover and me. She was part
of the program, like my clothes, like the pushed aside tables that
littered the dance floor's edge.