Perspective

by Fred Warren - 

“Mmm.” The tea was hot and astringent, with a pleasant flowery note. The illusory beverage had more character than most Adagio wines. It was enough to make a man forgo alcohol altogether.

John shuddered at the thought. Not quite yet.

Jiro watched him with amused interest across the low wooden table where they knelt on red silk cushions. “Feeling more comfortable?”

“Yes. The vertigo’s faded. It’s nice to be drinking this tea rather than wearing it.”

“The virtual-reality system learns along with you. New tasks become less awkward with each repetition. Every action you take smoothes and refines your interface.”

Outside Jiro’s house, the sun was setting, its last light splashed across the fading blue sky in pastel streaks of orange and pink. John felt a pleasant urge to stretch and yawn, which he indulged, an even more enjoyable sensation. “I guess I should begin work on my own personal space now. I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”

“Think nothing of it. You’ve been pleasant company, not at all the spoiled socialite I expected. Forgive me. I should know better than to judge people from my own prejudices…especially someone who’s managed to catch Anya’s eye.”

“I…expect she’ll find me less impressive as time goes by. I’m no altruist, Father Sukahara. I’ve spent my whole life looking for an edge, manipulating situations to my advantage, chasing power and influence. Even my decision to come here was selfish.”

“I prefer to believe you will find it most profitable to seize this opportunity to start afresh. Become the person you’ve always wanted to be, John Milton. You’ve stepped onto a blank canvas. Anything is possible.”

“I’m not sure I know where to begin.”

“Do what I did. Build yourself a place where you feel completely at ease, where you can ponder the course of your life without distraction. Then, listen.”

“Listen to what? God?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m a chaplain. What sort of advice did you expect? Try it. You may be surprised.”

“If I’m surprised, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” John drained his cup. “So…how exactly do I get out of here and into my own space?”

“Wait a moment. Before you go, there’s a particular matter that’s weighed heavily on me for a long while, and I’d like a fresh perspective.”  Jiro’s eyes locked with John’s. “Tell me…what do you think about the cyborgs?”

It was an odd question. John rarely gave them any thought at all. If this was a test, the textbook answer was safest: “They perform essential functions too dangerous or degrading for human beings. Cyborging is an efficient way to salvage incorrigible criminals and the hopelessly impaired so they can make a productive contribution to the colony.”

Jiro refilled John’s cup from a matching black porcelain teapot. “The technology was originally developed as a lifesaving measure of last resort for the terminally ill, but it’s traced a degenerating ethical spiral since then. It was applied to individuals with profound mental defects, then it was offered as an alternative to capital punishment, and from there, words like ‘incorrigible’ and ‘impaired’ and ‘hopeless’ were introduced and their definition expanded to encompass almost anything the civil authorities desired.”

“Those same authorities instituted a multi-level review process to prevent abuse.”

“Yes. I also find it interesting that no petitions for cyborg modification have been denied in the last ten Foundings.”

“That doesn’t mean they were unjustified.”

“There is a thriving black market in illegal cyborgs, and the government ignores it.”

“There are illegal markets for any product.”

“Product? We’re talking about people, John.”

Satori

by Fred Warren 

John leaned over the edge of a little bridge to admire the crystal-clear water tumbling across smooth, round rocks and into a shallow pool, where orange fish with long, translucent fins circled lazily beneath the shade of broad lily pads.

Clean, clear, living water. He could even feel the moisture it lent to the surrounding air. When he’d seen inland water on dusty, gritty Eclectia during his infrequent visits, it didn’t flow like this. Mostly, it oozed. What lurked beneath the surface was best forgotten.

“Hmm. Missed a spot.” Jiro laid his hand on the bridge’s black-enameled rail, and its immaculate shine faded. A network of hairline scratches and tiny chips spread across its surface, exposing flashes of the pale wood beneath.

John pulled away, and the rail creaked at the release of his weight. “Why did you do that?”

“A private obsession. Natural weathering is difficult to simulate, but the garden seems cozier to me if things aren’t in pristine condition.”

“Wear and tear is a virtue in Paradise,” John murmured as he ran a finger over the bumps and gouges. “Interesting.”

“The ability to exercise complete control over one’s surroundings leads us to value odd things sometimes.” Jiro crossed the bridge and stepped off the path to inspect a patch of tiny yellow flowers. “You’ve been very quiet, Mr. Milton. It surprises me you haven’t asked more questions.”

“Isn’t this garden designed to promote silent contemplation?”

“Ah. Yes, it is. Perhaps I made it too well. It’s also meant to inspire satori, the seeing into one’s true nature.”

“Isn’t that a Buddhist concept? Not something I’d expect to hear from a Catholic priest, Father Sukahara.”

He shrugged. “Consider it another of my many contradictions.”

John spread his arms wide. “It’s just…I’m overwhelmed by this place. It’s as if I’ve stepped back in time, into one of the legends of Old Earth.”

“Thank you.” Jiro stood up and nodded, apparently satisfied with the condition of the flowers, and they continued their walk along the winding garden path. “I’m pleased you find it authentic. In time, you may discover you’ve grown more difficult to impress.”

“I’m mostly curious about the rules that govern this world.” John surveyed the sky, half-expecting to discover Anya and Vicky peeking out from behind a cloud.

Jiro followed his gaze upward, “I am at your disposal, and our conversation will remain private.”

“I haven’t yet noticed any perceptible difference between my virtual body and the real thing. Can I change my appearance?”

“You appear to others as you wish to appear. Others appear to you as they wish to appear.”

“So you might actually be a wrinkled old crone, and I’d never know the difference?”

Jiro smiled. “Yes, but we’ve found it’s best to stick with a true representation of ourselves. Emotional disturbances arise if we tinker unnecessarily with our avatars. Most of us indulge in a few minor cosmetic enhancements…a nip here, a tuck there, an inch or two added to the stature, a splash of hair coloring. Vanity is one deadly sin I doubt we’ll ever master.”

“What about the environment?”

“That is negotiable. Etiquette dictates the person who creates the space controls it, and guests may interact with the environment but may not change its properties. For example, I have invited you into my personal space, so you are free to move about it. You can pick up an orange from the bowl on the table beside my front door, toss it into the air, peel it, even eat it, but you may not turn it into an apple. I could grant you that privilege, but it’s typically reserved for joint projects. We might, say, be hosting a party next week and need to work together to create a unique venue for our guests.”

“How much am I allowed to interact with the outside world?”

“Not at all, for a while, and then only so far as your duties require. We must keep our activities clandestine to avoid complications that could threaten our security and cause disruption to the colony.  Mostly, we watch. We try to let the colony develop in its own way. When we intervene, it is with small corrections and a gentle hand.”

“Moving the colony to another star system doesn’t seem very gentle.”

“Not all of us are in agreement regarding that course of action.” Jiro brushed cherry blossoms from the sleeve of his kimono with a sidewise glance at John. “You don’t approve? I was under the impression you favored relocating Avenir.”

Within the cherry tree’s pink cloud, the nightingale resumed its trilling.

“I was, but the more I think about it, the less certain I am.” They were beside the rock garden now, and John was silent for a few moments, tracing the spiral grooves in the sand with his eyes, failing to find either an origin or an endpoint. “Maybe there’s another way.”

Nightingale

by Fred Warren - 

John Milton’s sandals crunched on fine gravel as he walked with Jiro Sukahara along the meandering path through the chaplain’s expansive private garden. His balance was improving with each step, enough to let him savor the subtle splendor of the flowers and greenery. Feathery blossoms from a giant cherry tree at the garden’s heart filled the air and tumbled across the footpath.

In one corner, a sandy basin was dotted with angular stones arranged in a pattern that, to John, seemed orderly and random at the same time, and the white sand was raked into curving grooves that flowed into a complex spiral. A tiny brook roughly bisected the garden, its murmur punctuated by the slow metronome of a shishi-odoshi, a pivoting bamboo tube that filled and emptied itself at the base of a trickling fountain, making a pleasant wooden thunk with each cycle. Jiro explained the device’s original purpose was to startle wandering deer and discourage them from munching on the foliage.

“But mostly, I enjoy the sound it makes.”

A little bird with dull brown feathers clung to the topmost branch of the cherry tree, warbling and trilling a cascade of brilliant, liquid melody. John thought back to the riotous colors of the birds he’d seen on the tropical island where he’d met the Dreamers for the first time. “Such a beautiful song…I’d never have suspected it from such a plain bird.”

As if insulted, the tiny musician ended its concert with a sharp flourish, then vanished into the tree’s pastel depths.

“It’s called a nightingale.” Jiro sighed. “There’s an old story about a powerful emperor who befriended a nightingale he found in his garden. She perched on his windowsill and lulled him to sleep each night. All was well until the ruler of a neighboring land sent the emperor a mechanical songbird with gilded feathers and jeweled eyes as a birthday present. The emperor was so taken with the beauty of the mechanical bird that he drove the homely nightingale from his garden, only to discover the robot’s song possessed none of the nightingale’s magical charm. He never enjoyed another peaceful night’s sleep, and though he sent messengers to the nightingale with gifts and apologies, she refused to return, and their friendship was forever broken.”

“What a sad story.”

“I keep a nightingale in my garden to remind me that love is fragile, and illusion is no substitute for reality.”

“A strange sentiment from someone who lives in a virtual paradise.”

“I am a man of many contradictions.”

Chaplain

by Fred Warren

The claustrophobia was gone. Anya and Vicky had been guiding John through the restoration of his senses for what felt like several hours, and he could talk back to them now. He was still surrounded by thick darkness, but he could feel tactile feedback from his skin as he lay prone on some smooth, warm surface that conformed to his body’s contours, and when his nose itched, he could move his arm, hand, and fingers to scratch it. The air moving through his nostrils and into his lungs was cold and left a faint metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He knew all these sensations were part of an unimaginably complex computer simulation, but it felt so real. His consciousness was slipping into the Dreamers’ virtual world. It was frightening—and exhilarating.

He heard a series of high-pitched chimes, then Vicky and Anya began chattering excitedly to one another.

“Stage Three alert? You have got to be kidding me.”

“How could they have been overwhelmed so quickly? It must be a mistake.”

“No mistake. Look at the external feeds, Miss Sherikov—here, here, and…wow. There.”

“This is awful.”

“Cromwell doesn’t give a rip about the colonists. I want to see him explain this to Captain Aziz.”

“Hush. We told him we’d help if things got out of hand.”

“This is way beyond out of hand.”

“What’s the matter?” John called out. “What’s happening?”

Anya’s voice swirled around him. “Victoria and I must attend to a minor emergency that will require our full attention. Continue to lie quietly in place and limit your movements. Father Sukahara will monitor the remainder of your integration into the network and begin your orientation.”

“But I still can’t see anything!”

“Oh, quit bellyaching.” The disdain in Vicky’s voice was palpable. “Vision is the most complicated piece of the interface, so it takes the longest.  If we energize the connections any faster, it’ll fry that lump of oatmeal you’re using for brains.”

“Sukahara’s the chaplain, right? Wouldn’t it be better to have somebody with a technical background at the controls?”

“Well, if we get a power surge, you’ll need someone to administer Last Rites, and…”

Anya cut in. “Stop it, Victoria. John, Father Sukahara has sufficient medical training to keep you stable in the event of a mishap until we can return.”

“That’s comforting.”

“The process is almost finished. Relax. You’re in good hands.”

A rush of cool air flowed across his body, and a tapestry of sound unfurled within the void. Leaves rustling. Birds chirping. A high pitched buzzing that waxed and waned in the background. The whisper and chuckle of water. The smell of flowers, intense and sweet. A strange, hollow knock that repeated at a long interval.

Then, a new voice—a soft tenor. “Hello, Mr. Milton. I’m Jiro Sukahara. We met at the welcome banquet a few days ago, though I’m sorry we weren’t able to exchange more than pleasantries.”

“I remember. I was surprised to find a chaplain there. Why are you part of all this?”

“It was a nod to tradition on the part of the original crew. Some of them were devoutly religious. All of them recognized a need for someone with whom they could discuss delicate matters in complete privacy, outside the military command structure, without fear of disclosure.”

“Wouldn’t a psychologist have served the same purpose?”

“The crew wanted something more than expertise in treating mental or emotional distress. They knew they’d have to make difficult decisions…life and death choices on behalf of the people under their care. Their technical skills weren’t sufficient. They needed a moral and spiritual compass.”

“And now? Do they still feel that need?”

“Hmm. Not as often as I’d like.  Anya and Victoria consult with me the most.”

“I’m having trouble imagining Vicky seeking advice from a priest.”

“Beneath her bravado is an anxious little girl who misses her father terribly. She’s been forced to grow up much too fast, and her responsibilities weigh heavily upon her.”

“She hides it well enough.”

“I wish she wouldn’t. It would help her to be more open to others about what she’s feeling.”

John decided not to argue that point. “I hear a knocking sound. What is it?”

“It’s a shishi odoshi, a traditional garden decoration from the land of my ancestors on Earth. You’ll understand better once you’re able to see. I’ve arranged to bring you into my personal space…my virtual residence, you might say. I thought it might ease your orientation.”

“I think my vision’s coming back now. Is this some sort of test pattern? I’m seeing orange fish and white birds with long legs on a blue background.”

Jiro chuckled. “No, that’s not part of the process. Look closer.”

It took a few moments for John to realize he was staring up at a delicate watercolor painting of birds and fish cavorting in a broad blue lake. It formed what seemed to be the ceiling of a room, though the proportions were odd. The place was warm and sunlit, filled with the flowery aroma he’d noticed earlier, plus a pleasant, spicy odor he couldn’t identify. Turning his head to one side, which caused a brief moment of mild vertigo, he could see the light filtered through the pink-blossomed branches of a huge tree visible beyond the threshold of a wide opening. It made the space feel more like a porch than a living room.

There were no furnishings aside from the cushion that supported his body and a low table at the center bearing a stack of thin books on one side. Several large sheets of paper and a collection of writing instruments—brushes?—lay in a loose pile on the opposite end of the table. Jiro knelt behind it, and he was as John remembered him—a small, solidly-built man with close-cropped black hair and facial features similar to the Asian genetic subgroup on Avenir. He wore a dark blue robe decorated in the same pattern as the ceiling.

“Ah, it seems the integration is complete. Welcome to my home.” Jiro smiled, his face as warm and comforting as the room, and every lingering suspicion that all this was an illusion vanished from John Milton’s mind.

Awakening

by Fred Warren -

He was conscious, though he lacked objective evidence that this was the case. No light, no sensation of heat, cold, pain, or pressure on or within his skin. No odors, either pleasant or offensive. No lingering flavors within his mouth, not the faintest whisper to stir his eardrums to life.

If his heart was beating, he could neither feel nor hear his pulse.

Am I dead?

He was thinking, at least. That he was able to methodically catalogue the utter absence of any sensory feedback bore witness to cognition, if only via a slow and feeble synaptic spark.

There was memory, too. He had an identity: John Milton, resident of Avenir, businessman. Wait…that wasn’t quite true. He’d abandoned that life for something else, something new, something…no, someone…

Anya.

The Dreamers. That was it. He was being wired into the virtual reality inhabited by the Dreamers. He’d taken the long, spiraling journey into the heart of the Avenir station, where he was led into a brilliant white space. He’d disrobed and entered a life-support pod, there was a sharp sting, and the light faded into nothingness. Until now.

Something was wrong. Anya said he’d awaken into a world both vivid and boundless, as subjectively real as the mundane, sterile, hopeless environment of Avenir, but so much more. So much better.

Myriad horrifying possibilities began scampering about his mind, pursued by a fear that ever-so-slowly took form—lithe, feline, and clawed—from somewhere deep within his imagination. It crouched and bristled, ready to pounce. What it ensnared would become real.

He needed to take a deep breath, steady himself.

He couldn’t expand his chest to pull in a fresh lungful of air. He couldn’t even tell if he had a chest or lungs to fill with air. He was drowning in a viscous soup of nothingness.

He screamed, soundlessly. Again and again and again.

A wave of calm spread over him then, for no particular reason and from no perceptible direction. It didn’t matter so much anymore that he couldn’t feel himself breathing. Something tickled inside where his head ought to be. Something familiar…

“What’s the matter? What does that alarm mean?”

“His heart and respiratory rates were spiking. I gave the big baby a shot of sedative to settle him down until I’m ready to activate his neural net.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to plug an adult into our network, Victoria. A panic attack isn’t an unreasonable reaction to sensory deprivation.”

“It should feel restful, like floating inside a cloud.”

“That’s easy to say. You were integrated as an infant, so you can’t imagine how it must feel to someone who’s lived his entire life outside virtuality.”

“I remember exactly what it feels like. I loved it. In fact, I was really upset when they brought me online and I had to deal with all that noise and confusion again.”

“How could you possibly…”

“Did you forget who you’re talking with here? I’m precocious. Okay, all the connections are in place, self-check complete, statuses green. Time to light him up. I’ll engage the cycle extra-slow so we don’t kill him with sensory overload.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Yeah, he may be a whiny baby, but he’s the most interesting thing to happen in Paradise for the past five Foundings. There’s one thing I don’t get, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you bring him in? I mean, he’s smart and devious and all that, but there are plenty of colonists who are more tech-savvy, and I would’ve expected you to find some kind of electronics wizard to take over Communications.”

“It’s…well, it’s complicated. I wanted someone who could hold his own with Aziz and the others, someone who understands the social and political dynamics of both Avenir and Eclectia. Well-rounded. Someone like that.”

“Then why not a politician? Admit it, Miss Sherikov, you’re sweet on this clodhopper. You know I’m going to find a cure for you, so you’re planning ahead. You want a boyyyfriend. You looove him. You want to…”

“I want…nothing of the sort. You’re being ridiculous. I suggest you refrain from further speculation on my motives, and stay focused on the task at hand. How much longer until he begins to regain sensation?”

“Oh, he’s been able to hear us for about three minutes or so.”

“He…what? Victoria Remsen, you little laska!  I’m going to deactivate your sensory inputs, permanently!”

“Take it easy. Maybe he won’t remember. Or, maybe he will.”

“Victoria!”

“Hee, hee… Moving on to the sense of touch.”

Afterlife

by Fred Warren

“Move the colony.”

It was a throwaway line, something John would toss out for a few cheap laughs at a cocktail party, a bit of cynical commentary on the state of Avenir Eclectia. It wasn't a call to action. No one but the lunatic fringe would seriously consider it. The Avenir space station might have been born an interstellar transport, but in the hundreds of Foundings since its arrival at 94 Ceti, it had added a panoply of pods and modules and bays and docks, like a hermit crab adorning its seashell home with bits of flotsam and jetsam, until its spacefaring origins were obscured beyond recognition.

But the Dreamers had not forgotten, and they were working patiently, incrementally, and invisibly to make Avenir a spaceship once again. John had no doubt they would succeed, and his business instincts screamed at him to seize their invitation to unlimited power and leverage. They controlled the nanofactories, the computer network, and who knew how many key government officials. Their virtual world was amazing, even when experienced through an obsolete interface. Part of him longed for the full experience. Sensations, smells, tastes, sights beyond his wildest imaginings, so vivid as to make the distinction between real and virtual irrelevant. Islands, and birds.

And there was Anya.

Something still held him back. All dreams came at a cost, and this one was no exception. He'd never thought much about his fellow colonists, other than as human resources or business competitors, but now as he wandered the station, ranging farther than he ever had before, he found himself looking at their faces, pondering their fate. From the idle rich of the upper levels to the desperate poor begging for scraps in its depths. Aristocrats and merchants, Peacekeepers and Enforcers, dockworkers and technicians, fishmongers and beetle butchers, pickpockets and orphans. Who would be taken when Avenir shed its encrustations and blasted away to a more hospitable star? Who would be left behind? Would they find a way to survive without the station's technical resources? Would the colony devolve into barbarism, a handful of scattered tribes clinging to life as both hunters and prey of Eclectia's giant insects, slowly suffocated by the planet's corrosive atmosphere?

What did it matter? The colony was dying anyway. The Dreamers knew this. The only way to save any of it was to move along with whatever they could salvage. From that perspective, his choice was either to remain as he was, gathering wealth and gilding his own pleasures as best he could until the end, or to join the Dreamers, where he would have a voting stake in the colony's future--and the power to shape it.

When John thought about it that way, there wasn't any choice at all. He found an observation gallery in an obscure corner of one of the station's lower levels and gazed out at the feverish countenance of Eclectia and beyond to shattered Sheba and the leering glow of the Whale Star itself. It might be the last time he saw them face to face, with his own eyes.

“You've made up your mind.” The image of Anya Sherikov stood beside him in her shimmering red dress, her eyes merry.

“I can't even have the privilege of a quiet moment with my own thoughts?”

“You will succeed me as Communications Officer. No one can intrude upon your privacy without permission, save Captain Aziz. Even he must knock first.”

“That's reassuring.”

“We wagered among ourselves how long it would take you to deliberate. Captain Aziz thought you would decide within the first day. Victoria was less optimistic.”

“How much less?”

“She said I'd probably find you dead drunk in a dockside bar two weeks from now.”

“Vicky is one scary little girl. What about you? What was your guess?”

Anya smiled. “You're right on time.”

“Congratulations. So, what now?”

“Look over there.” She pointed toward the window. A Hawthorne-class VIP shuttle had just cleared its moorings and was falling away from the station toward Eclectia.

It exploded in soundless flash of white light.

“The official records will state that all occupants, including one John Milton, were lost when their spacecraft suffered catastrophic engine failure en route to Adagio. Your personal assets have been dispersed and controlling interests in your various business ventures transferred to your partners. It's time to take up residence in Paradise, John. Welcome to your afterlife.”

#

Melanie checked the address again. It had taken a little digging, but she was certain this was where he lived. She smoothed her tunic and trousers and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes before ringing the chime.

A thin, pale man wearing a plain black suit opened the door. His face was void of any emotion as he examined her. “May I help you, Miss?”

“I...my name is Melanie Hunt. Are you Mr. Milton?”

“No, this unit served as Mr. Milton's valet. I await re-purposing.”

It was a Frank. Melanie swallowed hard. She had to see this through, for Carson's sake. “I need to speak with Mr. Milton. It's urgent. Tell him it's about the Dreamers.”

The cyborg butler was still for a moment, then it blinked twice. When it spoke again, its voice was higher in pitch, almost feminine. “Mr. Milton died early this morning.”

“What? Oh...oh, no. I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Thank you. I...I hope they find you a good job.” She had to fight an impulse to flee. Turn away, and take one step at a time, like a sane person.

“Wait.”

She spun around. The impassive face wore a softer expression. It was smiling. There was just enough curve in the mouth to make it certain. Franks weren't supposed to feel emotion. Was this a new feature, special for rich owners?

It opened the door wider and bowed. “Come in, Miss. Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

Download

by Fred Warren

Melanie stood in the shadow of the obsidian mountains, alone this time. No ninja outfit, no dodging and weaving her way from boulder to bush, trying to hide from an enemy that wasn't there. Most of all, there was no Carson and no Hamsa. She'd catch hell later for doing the retrieval without them, but they'd just slow her down.

This place, deserted or not, gave her the creeps. It felt haunted. The twisted drill bit embedded in the fractured cliff ahead was Jumbo's Folly, the headstone of a reckless gamer who died trying to break into whatever was protected by the mysterious black wall. Carson thought it was Paradise, the fabled home of the legendary Dreamers. Melanie thought he was nuts.

He'd abandoned life beyond his simulation couch, but he was her brother. She'd never abandon him.

Whatever it was, it didn't want visitors. Two days ago, Carson and his friends had detected a data leak here, and she'd sent a reconnaissance AI into a crack in the firewall. By now, the chameleon program should have filled its memory with the information they'd need to penetrate the enclave without triggering a lethal response.

It was time to recover Flat Audrey and get out of here.

“Audrey, return.”

The slender black ribbon that dropped from the gash in the cliff lay in the grass for a moment, then curled up on itself like a tiny serpent, whistling in a reedy voice, *MISSION COMPLETE.*

Melanie picked it up and set it in the palm of her right hand. “Welcome back, Audrey. How are you?”

*I AM FINE. I AM FULL. I DO NOT LIKE THAT SYSTEM.*

This was an odd status report, even from Audrey. “What don't you like about it?”

*MANY HOSTILE SECURITY PROGRAMS, ALL PURPOSED TO DESTROY INTRUDERS. WE SHOULD LEAVE NOW.*

“No argument here. Were you detected?”

*NO. I AM EXTRAORDINARY.*

“Yes, you are. Let's go home.”

It was a relief to get out of the gaming rig. Melanie used the suite's interface to transfer Audrey from the network into a memory stick, then she returned to her own room and plugged the stick into a stand-alone workstation. She didn't want anybody else seeing what Audrey had discovered behind the firewall.

She opened the first archive and groaned. It was encrypted.

“Audrey, why didn't you decrypt this data?”

*UNABLE. MILITARY-STRENGTH ENCRYPTION. I AM NOT THAT EXTRAORDINARY.*

Melanie chuckled. There weren't many AIs that could make a synthesized voice sound sad. The developers usually didn't bother. Audrey, however, was a labor of love.

“It's not your fault, baby. I programmed you.”

*YES, IT IS YOUR FAULT.*

“Saucy girl.” Melanie could still hack the encrypted files, but she'd have to call in a favor from one of her tech school classmates who had a bone to pick with the Peacekeepers. “Is anything you collected not encrypted?”

*YES. OPEN ARCHIVE 8034-A. INTERFACE DATA AND ID OF GUEST USER EXTERNAL TO NETWORK. ARCHAIC ADAPTER SPILLED DATA THROUGH GAP IN FIREWALL.*

“Do tell. This must be the guy who lit up Jumbo's Folly. Let's take a look.” Her fingers flew across the touchpad, and lines of data, readable data, flowed across the screen. Technical specifications of the user's simulation rig. Network addresses. Data volume and rate of flow. At the end of it all was a standard colonist identification code cluster. And a name.

Melanie blinked. “John Milton?”

She knew the name. Milton was a celebrity, a big-shot businessman, an import-export broker. It didn't make sense. This guy was too busy making money to waste any time on sims. He played his games in the real world with real people. What possible connection could he have with the Dreamers? Why would he care?

He wouldn't.

Melanie smiled. That was the answer. There weren't any Dreamers. The obsidian firewall was there to protect records of shady business deals, or embezzlement, or bribes paid to government officials. That would make a lot more sense than a play world for disembodied relics of a bygone age. If she could prove it, her brother would lose interest in Jumbo's Folly, and the firewall, and the missing memory blocks in the network servers. He'd go back to his friends and his games and stop risking his life sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

It was time to pay a visit to Mr. John Milton.

Banquet

by Fred Warren

Vicky tugged at John’s arm as they walked up the broad, grassy slope to the clearing where a group of people sat around a long table laden with flowers and exotic food. John was still gaping at the rainbow-colored birds, swaying palm trees, and most of all, the turquoise-blue water that surrounded this tiny island. When he didn’t respond, she pulled on his ear with enough force to make him double over.

“Keep your mouth shut and smile a lot,” she whispered, “Talk only if somebody asks you a question. When you do talk, don’t be boring, if that’s possible.”

“Thanks.” John rubbed his ear and straightened his jacket. “I’ll try to remember that.”

A low burble of conversation coalesced into intelligible words as they approached the banquet table.

“In my opinion, they’ve become far too dangerous. How long do you intend to let them run on?”

“Teriyaki chicken? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Levitation? You’re joking. That’s impossible.”

“Oh, a while yet. The scheme amuses me, and their blundering draws attention away from our activities. After they’ve been exposed, it should be easier for us to proceed.”

“Take a bite. It’s one of the formulations I recovered last week. Since I incorporated my new algorithm into the core recovery utility, I’ve repaired fifteen teras of memory I thought was lost forever.”

“I watched it happen. If only I’d thought to initiate a recording. There’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

“Just don’t wait until they’ve wrecked the entire station and decimated the colony. Pineapple?”

“Mmm. It’s heavenly. I may eat nothing else for days.”

“Next you’ll claim they’re conjuring apparitions of the Holy Virgin.”

 “Don’t mind if I do. Thank you. How goes the refit? ”

“Wait ‘til you taste the lemon meringue pie.”

“Don’t scoff. You should peruse my predecessor’s archives sometime. Avenir Eclectia’s history is chock full of unexplained phenomena. He was convinced there’s a spiritual element to it.”

“Poorly. There’s nothing for it but to completely strip and resurface the radiation shield. I can jigger the nanofactories to produce the necessary materials, but I’ll have to move at a snail’s pace to avoid attracting attention. It will be at least one more Founding before we can think of proceeding to the next step.”

“I’m hoping our new recruit can help us expedite that. Ah, here he is now.”  The man at the head of the table rose from his chair. He wore a white, military-styled cutaway jacket trimmed with gold braid. Wavy black hair fell almost to his shoulders, and his brown eyes and dark complexion made the brilliance of his smile that much more striking. “I am Captain Kagan Aziz, and these are my friends and advisors.”

A burly, redheaded man wearing a uniform similar to Aziz’ stood up and seized John’s hand in a crushing grip. “Otherwise known as ‘The Staff.’  I’m Colin Finn, First Officer, in charge of colony liaison and human intelligence.”

The other officers arose in turn and moved around the table to greet John.

“Girard LeBeau, Engineering.”

“Yeong Soo Min, Astrophysics and Navigation.”

“Nigel Cromwell, Security.”

“Jiro Sukahara, Chaplain.”

John nodded at each one, accepted and returned a firm handshake, and tried to maintain an expression of polite interest, the only way he could think to follow Vicky’s instructions without looking like a complete idiot. So these are the Dreamers. It beggared belief. The descendants of Avenir’s original command crew, living in a virtual world but still influencing the colony their ancestors helped found so long ago. Not a legend. Real, powerful, and active.

But there aren’t very many. Are these all of them?

Aziz finished the introductions: “You’re already well acquainted with Anya Sherikov, Communications Officer, and your lovely escort, Victoria Remsen, Medical and Life Sciences. Please, join us. I must apologize in advance…the food and drink will have little taste due to the limitations of your interface, but once you are fully integrated into our network, I promise you flavors and sensations beyond your wildest imagination.”

“So Anya has told me, but I haven’t actually decided whether…”

Cromwell interrupted in a rumbling voice that matched his scowling, craggy face. “Anya, I thought we agreed not to use the visitor interface until the firewall was repaired.”

“This is a situation of some urgency, Nigel.” She flicked her fingers in an airy wave, as if she was shooing off an annoying insect. “Don’t worry, I’m monitoring the fracture. There have been no attempts to probe or penetrate it, only some idle chatter on the Gaming net.”

He tapped the table with a stubby finger. “I will not tolerate any compromise of the firewall.”

The carefree mirth vanished from Anya’s countenance. “Oh, I’m certain all the Gamers are still shivering in terror after what you did the last time. It was excessive, and it compounded the damage. You probably drew more attention to our existence than any number of data leaks.”

“I’ll do it again, if necessary.”

Anya pushed up from her chair and slowly leaned across the table, coming almost nose-to-nose with Nigel. “The Command Network firewall is my domain. You will not apply active countermeasures without my consent.”

“I won’t need consent if I void your security clearance.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try.”

Aziz raised a hand. “That’s enough bickering, both of you. This is no way to behave in the presence of a guest. Anya, continue to monitor for intruders. If Nigel thinks countermeasures are necessary, I would like input from the entire staff before I decide whether or not to respond. Is that clear?”

The two combatants remained silent, eyes locked.

Aziz steepled his fingers beneath his chin and sighed. “Is. That. Clear?”

 “Yessir.” Anya flopped back into her chair and turned it sideways.

“Yes…sir,” Nigel growled.

“Excellent. Now, to business. Mr. Milton, we have been observing you for some time, and are very impressed with your business acumen and technical expertise. Most of all, you appear to share our vision for the future of this colony. Anya thinks you would make a worthy replacement for her when the time comes, and I concur.”

Vicky piped up. “Miss Sherikov doesn’t need replacing. I’m going to make her well.”

“Your father spent many years studying Anya’s ailment, without success,” said Aziz. “We must prepare for the worst-case scenario.”

“Father was close to a cure. I know I can finish it.”

“Victoria, now is not the time.”

Her face flushed. She fixed her eyes on her plate, but her shoulders were trembling. “No! If I don’t figure this out, we’re all…”

Aziz’ voice cracked like a whip. “Victoria!”

There was silence all around the table for several long moments, then Vicky murmured, “I’m sorry, Captain.”

He reached across the table to grasp her hand, and John was surprised she didn’t pull away.  “We are all very fond of Anya, but we must also acknowledge the reality of her situation. It may be that you will identify an effective treatment, but we cannot risk a gap in transition for the Communications function. Many things depend on its smooth operation.”

Anya  gently encircled Vicky’s shoulders. “I have confidence in your skill, dear one, but the Captain is right. We must be prepared. Anyway, it’s a long while yet before we have to worry. In the meantime, our new friend has many things to learn.”

Vicky sniffed and rubbed her nose. “That’s for sure.”

Aziz leaned back in his chair and gestured toward John. “As you may have noticed, despite living in this virtual paradise, we are not a community of lotus eaters. We are passionate about a great many things, and it keeps life interesting, at the price of an argument or two along the way. Now, I’m sure you have many questions about us. Proceed.”

John didn’t hesitate. “I’ve at least a hundred, but there’s one thing I’m particularly curious about. You said I share your vision for the colony. I don’t understand. I don’t have a vision for Avenir Eclectia. In my opinion, it was a mistake for us to settle here.”

 “Precisely.” Aziz smiled and twiddled a tiny cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “We are convinced the colony is no longer viable. It must be relocated.”

Expanse

by Fred Warren - 

“Good grief. Took you long enough to wake up.”

John blinked and groaned as the leering face of Victoria Remsen gradually came into focus above him, framed in dangling brown curls that bobbed and waved like a collection of springs--or snakes.

“Where am...oh, right. I remember. Doctor Vicky's House of Horrors. It feels like you ran over me with a forklift.”

The discomfort was real. John had to keep reminding himself he was immersed in a virtual reality simulation, and Vicky was suspended inside a life support pod somewhere nearby, practicing medicine by remote control, her brain hardwired into the Avenir computer network. She wasn't a little girl play-acting at being a doctor. She was a Dreamer, part of the legendary, hidden community that watched over the entire Avenir Eclectia colony from cyberspace--and wielded more control over it than anyone imagined. She knew what she was doing, and she was very, very dangerous.

She winked at him. “Good idea. Let's save that for next time.”

The cartoony nurse costume she'd worn at their introduction had been replaced by a modest red party dress and a white lace shawl that draped across her shoulders. She began unfastening the restraints that held him to the examination table. “Well, you may be a moron, Mister John Milton, but you're no coward. I expected you to scream like a baby when I took the spinal tap, but you didn't make a sound. Impressive, but boring. Instead of letting the pain drive you into unconsciousness, I sedated you.”

“How kind. Thanks.”

“You earned it. It also gave me a chance to start attacking your liver problem, so the time wasn't completely wasted.”

“What did you do to my liver?”

“Programmed some nanobots and set them to work reconstructing the right lobe. They should be finished in a couple of weeks. Don't worry...it won't hurt, but you can expect a little nausea mornings and evenings. Okay, maybe a lot of nausea. Anyhow, you're lucky. Without the repairs, you would have been dead inside five Foundings. As rich as you are, I'd think you could afford better hooch than that battery acid you've been drinking.”

“I only buy the best vodka on Avenir.”

“It's battery acid, and if you drink any more, I won't fix you. I don't warranty my work against stupidity. Now, get up. We're running behind.”

“Behind what?” John sat up, and nearly fell off the table as a wave of vertigo washed over him, setting the entire room awhirl.

Vicky grabbed his arm, somehow managing to keep him upright and stable. “Whoa, guess I overdosed you a little on the sedative. Take it easy. Slow breaths, in and out. You'll get your balance back in a minute.”

The oscillations subsided. John cautiously set his feet on the floor and stood up. He was fully dressed, the thin hospital gown exchanged for an expensive-looking formal suit in pinstriped gray with silver buttons, a starched white shirt and bow tie, and shiny black shoes. He tugged at his sleeves. “Why am I wearing a tuxedo?”

Vicky sighed. “The same reason I'm wearing a fancy dress. The command staff is honoring you with a welcome banquet. They're all waiting for us, and Captain Aziz isn't known for his patience. C'mon, this way.”

She guided John by his elbow to the examination room's single door and unlatched it. Bright sunlight flooded through the opening, and John could hear strange twittering sounds and a low, repetitive rush of air. He stepped through the doorway onto soft, verdant grass that carpeted a broad clearing ringed with tall, thin trees. They swayed in a warm, gentle breeze that smelled faintly sour and tangy. The leafy foliage at their crowns danced in the wind, dark green fronds that stood in sharp contrast to the brilliant blue sky. Tiny winged creatures with indigo, crimson, and vermillion plumage fluttered among the treetops. Birds. He'd only seen pictures before, on his computer display or in old, old books.

In the distance, visible between the trees, was an expanse of translucent blue, tipped here and there with frothy white. The door had vanished behind him, and as he turned first to the right, then to the left, then all the way around, he could see the water encompassed the land on all sides.

It was an ocean. A real, living ocean.

He was on an island.

There was a long table at the center of the clearing with people seated around it, half a dozen or so, talking and laughing.

Vicky jabbed his shoulder with a manicured fingernail. “Quit gawking, and start walking.”

Examination

by Fred Warren

“This interface provides much less fidelity than a fully-integrated network connection, but we’ve found it useful as a means of conferencing with outsiders from time to time.”

Cyborgs assisted John as he shuffled to a contoured couch and lay down. The full-immersion helmet permitted a narrow, foggy, green-tinted view of the room, and of Anya’s holographic image standing to one side. “It’s like a gaming rig, but it’s a lot heavier,” he wheezed. Tubes and wires ran from the suit to a conduit in the ceiling, high above. He felt like a life-sized puppet. “I can barely move in this thing.”

“I think you’ll find this simsuit is more sophisticated than the ones you’re used to. Of course, when you experience the hardwired connection, you won’t be able to distinguish it from real life.” She turned away. “I have a few more preparations to make, but I think you’re ready to enter our virtuality now. I’ll see you inside.”

“Wait. I still have questions…”

Anya motioned to a cyborg sitting at the control panel. “Activate the interface.”

John’s muscles convulsed, and a wave of vertigo tunneled his vision, then expanded it to infinity in a rush of color and light. As focus returned, he found himself standing in a bare, white room containing a table, a chair, and washbasin with a mirror. There was a single door, closed, and the doorknob didn’t turn when he tried it.

He looked down at himself. He was clad in a thin blue gown that tied at the back. His arms and legs were stylized , smooth and hairless, like a doll’s, but the hands and feet had the proper number of fingers and toes. Turning to the mirror, his own face gazed back at him. It wasn’t a perfect image, maybe a shade more lifelike than the virtual-reality games he had played as a teenager. Dark brown hair, parted at the middle, green eyes, prominent cheekbones, a trace of stubble at the chin.

“Hello, Mister Milton. Welcome to Paradise!”

He spun round. Smiling up at him was a little girl wearing a pink-pinstriped dress, white pinafore, and a square cap emblazoned with a wide, red cross. A stethoscope was tucked into a pocket on the pinafore.

He couldn’t help but grin back. “Paradise, eh? I thought it would be bigger. Who are you, and where’s Anya?”

The girl tilted her head, light-brown curls bouncing with the motion. “I thought you would be taller. I’m Doctor Vicky. Miss Sherikov is arranging your meeting with the other Commanders, and she said I should see to your examination in the meantime.”

“Anya said nothing to me about an examination. Is this some kind of joke? You’re just a kid.”

Her smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m ten Foundings old, and I’m the Avenir Medical Officer. Sit on the table so I can begin your examination.”

“Listen, Doctor…Vicky? Nobody’s examining anything on me until I see Anya.”

“Hmm. I guess Miss Sherikov forgot to tell me you’re a moron. Get on the table. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Makes no difference to me.”

John slid himself into a sitting position on the table, clutching the gown tightly around him. “This can’t be right. It’s…it’s indecent.”

“Mister, if you’ve seen one avatar, you’ve seen ’em all, and that goes double for this piece-of-junk interface you’re using. I’ve got stuffed animals with more physical detail.” She pulled the stethoscope from its pocket, set the prongs into her ears, and pressed the diaphragm onto his chest.

“Hey, that’s cold!”

“Shut up. Lungs clear, heart function good, slight hypertension, minor plaque buildup on the aortic wall.” She reached up on tiptoe and set the diaphragm against his throat. “Some narrowing of the carotid artery, but that’s easily reamed out.”

“What do you mean, ‘reamed out?’”

“Do I have to tape your mouth shut? Bend over so I can reach your head. EEG recording…complete. Hmm. A couple of freaky spikes. I’ll take a closer look at that later. Mm-hmm…intracranial pressure normal, pituitary normal, thyroid normal. You can sit up straight now.” She moved to his stomach and frowned. “Wow, you’ve got the liver of a sixty-Foundings man. What have you been drinking?”

“Vodka, mostly.”

“It’s killing you. Stop it. Now, turn over.”

“This thing is open at the back. There’s no way I’m letting you…”

“Okay, the hard way, then.” Vicky began rolling up her sleeves.

The door opened, and to John’s great relief, Anya entered the room, cradling a large datapad. Like his own image, her avatar wasn’t nearly as realistic as the hologram he was familiar with. She was dressed like a secretary, in a burgundy suit, and her red hair was pinned into a conservative bun. “Ah,” she said, “I see you’ve met our Doctor Remsen. Victoria took charge of Medical and Life Sciences after her father’s death, two Foundings ago. We would have liked her to have more time to ease into her responsibilities, but she’s doing a fine job. She’s extraordinarily bright.”

“I wish you’d call me Vicky. Victoria makes me sound like an old lady.”

“You’re an officer now. We must maintain decorum.”

“Whatever.” Vicky pointed at John. “He won’t cooperate with the examination.”

Anya laid a hand on her shoulder. “Victoria, do you remember what Captain Aziz said about your bedside manner?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Vicky sighed. “Less attitude, more professional.” She produced a huge syringe, with a disturbingly long needle, from somewhere behind her back. “Ahem. Mister Milton, I will need samples of your blood, bone marrow, and cerebrospinal fluid to complete your physical examination and obtain the necessary data to prepare for your integration into the Avenir Command Network. Please roll onto your stomach, as the necessary control points for your simsuit are located on your avatar’s back.”

“Wait…bone marrow? Cerebro-what?”

“This will hurt.”

Over his shoulder, John could see Vicky’s cherubic face grinning from ear to ear as the needle descended.

Nexus

by Fred Warren -

It’s a trap.

As his possessed valet plodded ahead of him, leading the way to who knew where, John Milton ran down the list of his enemies—a roster of considerable length that grew with each successive Founding. One of them had to be behind this. Chamberlin? No...he’s a vindictive thug, but far too stupid to coordinate such an elaborate deception. Chun Hee? She has the technical skills, but she’d rather eviscerate her rivals publicly. Mkombo? Too craven. Sanchez? Busy fending off his own enemies. Jaworsky would rather haggle. Torrance just steals what he wants when nobody’s looking...

“Cheer up, John. It’s not as if I’m leading you to the gallows.”

It still made his flesh crawl to hear Anya Sherikov‘s voice coming from the cyborg butler’s mouth. “I’d be less tense if you’d tell me where we’re going,” he muttered.

“We’re going to the place where all your questions will find their answers. Here’s the door.”

The air was uncomfortably hot. They’d been walking for what seemed like hours through a maze of twisting corridors. By now, they must be somewhere close to the heart of Avenir, near the power core. The metal bulkheads resonated with eerie sounds—clanks, hums, whistles and gurgling. The valet stood before an oval hatch at the end of the corridor and palmed a square glass plate set into the left side above a recessed handle.

John’s head snapped up at a high-pitched whine overhead. Two laser turrets emerged from the ceiling, one trained on him, the other on the valet. The door plate glowed green, and something clicked within the hatch. The valet tugged on the handle and motioned to John as the door silently swung open, releasing a welcome rush of cool air.

“Please, come in. I’ll leave your man here for the return trip,” Anya said, then the valet froze in position, eyes blank, jaw slack, bent slightly forward at the waist. John edged past, through the hatchway, and the door swung shut behind him.

The corridor continued, but it was rounder, more tunnel-like, and sheathed in some soft material that silenced John’s footsteps and the other ambient noises of the station. He could see the end of it, a brilliantly-lit opening painful to look at after so much time spent in semidarkness. He had to cover his eyes with one hand as he drew closer, pressing the other hand against the corridor wall until he felt it give way to open space.

Anya’s voice came from within, and the sound reverberated through what sounded like an immense emptiness. “Your eyes will adjust in a few moments. Welcome to my home, John.”

Tears dribbled from the corners of his eyes as he strained to open them in the blinding light. Shapes began to form, white within white, darkening to vague shadows, then taking form and focus. The room was huge, as big as any concert hall on Avenir, and lined with ovoid structures, each at least five meters high and twice that in diameter, connected to each other and to the walls of the chamber by an array of pipes and conduits. Cyborgs shuffled about at the margins, inspecting panels and adjusting controls. John staggered into the room, head swiveling, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Thinking of buying the place? I’m afraid I’m too attached to it to sell outright, but I might consider letting you move into one of the spare rooms.”

He spun around. She stood before him, eyes blue and laughing, golden hair tumbling across her shoulders, resplendent in crimson--the same dress she’d worn at their first meeting.

Anya Sherikov, scion of Mikhail Sherikov, Avenir’s original communications officer, heir to his power and authority.

Dreamer.

John struggled to gather his wits. He was a businessman—the best of his generation. He couldn’t blindly accept Anya’s proposal, no matter how overwhelmed he felt or how beautiful she looked. He needed evidence of her good faith. He needed collateral.

She smiled. “Now I can formally introduce you to the community. We rarely have visitors, but there is provision for a temporary connection to our virtual space. There’s a comfortable couch in the alcove, over there. My drones will make the necessary attachments. The resolution doesn’t compare to a hardwired link, but...”

“No. First, I want to see you, Anya.”

“I don’t understand. I’m standing right here. Perhaps your eyes still need time to adjust.”

“The real you. No holograms, no video, no illusions. Otherwise, there’s no deal. You’ll have to find yourself another successor.”

“The real me? Ah, the stories. You’re afraid I’m a mutated horror, or a disembodied brain immersed in a nutrient vat. Believe me, I’m as human as you are. This hologram is a true image...well, perhaps with a few cosmetic enhancements for vanity’s sake. Besides, John, a lady values her privacy, and Dreamers even more so. This is a rude request. Most of us wouldn’t grant it. Some would destroy you for merely asking.”

“If you’re my future, I need to see with my own eyes exactly what that means.”

“Silly boy. The body is only a reservoir for the spirit. In a few weeks, you won’t care about it at all. You’ll barely remember what it was like to be so limited.”

“You want my trust. This is the price.”

She sighed. “Very well.” A drone turned from his inspection of a data panel and took John by the arm. “Follow him,” Anya said, “but I’ll tolerate no gawking. My dignity still matters to me, even while floating naked in a preservation chamber.”

“Naked? What...wait!”

Anya chuckled and shook her head. “No, you idiot, I’m not naked. You make it far too easy, John Milton. Have your look—I’ve no more time for these ridiculous superstitions.”

The cyborg guided John to one of the white ovoids and passed a hand over a glass plate on its side. A circular panel irised open, revealing a small porthole. The interior illuminated, and after a moment’s hesitation, John looked inside.

Anya’s body lay motionless within the liquid-filled chamber, nestled in a spiderweb of thin cables and tubes. The hologram was a true image, and yet...beneath the white gown and skinsuit her body looked thin and fragile, emaciated. A cascade of blond hair framed hollow cheeks. Her skin was sallow and her eyes shadowed.

Her voice whispered over his shoulder, and he thought the pale lips of the woman sleeping within the chamber might have moved along with it. “Satisfied?”

John nodded. “You’re beautiful, even now. Your illness...how much longer will you live?”

“A few months. Perhaps a year, if I’m fortunate. Time enough to teach you all you need to take my place.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve had a full life—several of them, by your standards. The preservation technology is very effective at easing the ravages of time, but death finds us all, eventually.”

The drone closed the panel, and John turned to find Anya’s hologram watching him with a faint, sad smile, eyes bright with an illusion of moisture so vivid, he had to restrain the impulse to reach out and touch her face.