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From: quanta@netcom.com (Daniel K. Appelquist)
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To: quanta-ascii@netcom.com
Subject: Quanta - July 1995 - Part 2 of 5
Date: Mon, 31 Jul 1995 13:10:08 -0700
and tidy gray hair held back in a bun. She looked at Casey with a hint
of distaste.

Prompted by Dr. Charlton, she told how she had been monitoring
Anderson's life signs when she noticed an increase in respiration and
heart rate. "He was lying in bed with those stupid goggles and
gloves on, his hands twitching, breathing fast. I flipped on the TV to
see what was causing this "

"You did what?" Casey exclaimed.

She glared at him. "I know why you don't want anyone looking in
on your games. You don't want anyone to know what porno filth you've
been subjecting that poor man to."

"What are you talking about?" Casey asked.

"I saw it," she said. "I know that what you see on the
monitor is what Mr. Anderson is seeing through his goggles. He told me
that. And what I saw was a naked woman, her legs apart, her arms
outstretched. Disgusting."

"It was his wife," Casey said.

"It was a teenage girl," Nurse Shaw said.

"It doesn't matter," Dr. Charlton said. "What did you
do next?" he asked the nurse.

"I removed the inputs and tried to wake Mr. Anderson up. When he
wouldn't wake, I called the doctor."

"But first you turned the computer off, didn't you?" Casey
said. "Without using the interrupt button first?"

The nurse looked at Dr. Charlton, shrugged and nodded.

After Charlton excused the nurse, Casey said. "We have to hook
him back up to the VR interface."

"Out of the question," Charlton said. "The man is
comatose."

"He's comatose because the nurse shut off his inputs while he
was in a particularly vivid VR experience."

Charlton chewed his lower lip as he considered this, then shook his
head. "There's no reason to believe that her shutting off the
machine could have induced the coma. He's undergoing a general failure
of his vital systems. But for an elaborate medical effort, he wouldn't
even be alive. It's unlikely an external stimulus was involved, but if
it was it's just as likely that your program agitated him to the point
where the physical shock of the experience pushed his body into that
state."

"If it is his body," Casey said. "I think it's his
mind that retreated from the shock of being disconnected from virtual
reality, the only reality he cares about. I know I'm not qualified to
give medical advice, Doctor, but I don't see how it can hurt him if
I'm wrong."

Charlton considered this. "I'll have to get permission from the
family, you know. Gavin is not likely to give his consent."

"You won't need his consent," Casey said. He reached in his
coat pocket and produced an envelope. He handed it to
Charlton. "This is a power-of-attorney. Before he fell ill,
Mr. Anderson anticipated that he might become incapacitated. In that
event, he authorized me to make legal and medical decisions on his
behalf. Business decisions are left to Gavin."

"I'll have to have this checked by our legal department,"
Charlton said. "If they say it's okay, I have no
objections."

Two hours after Casey hooked the unconscious man back to the
interface, Anderson raised his right hand to his face and removed the
visor. Casey helped him with the other inputs.

The doctors and medical technicians came bustling in and Casey was
forced to wait outside until Dr. Charlton gave his okay for Anderson
to receive visitors again. 

Anderson smiled. "I knew you'd get me back. What happened? Ray
was all business."

Casey told him.

Anderson looked thoughtful. "I didn't notice any shock from the
disconnect. Hell, I don't remember the disconnect. I was with
Helen. Later, when I looked for the door, it was gone. I wasn't
worried. Every once in a while, I'd look again. One time it was
there."

Casey studied the older man. "You're saying there was no
discontinuity. But the interface was disconnected. You were not in
contact with the VR program."

"Couldn't prove it by me, son. Everything seemed perfectly
normal, except the door wasn't there. Helen and I just kept checking
she didn't seem to be worried about it either."

"You...uh, discussed the outside world with Helen?"

"Sure. We talk about it all the time. Helen says she's sorry she
didn't know you before she died. She wants you to come inside so she
can meet you."

Casey's head was spinning. His whole world was being threatened. If
prolonged exposure to virtual reality could leave a reasoning person
unable to distinguish between real and imaginary people after the
interface was broken if Anderson had become psychotic, it could mean
the end of virtual reality as a commercial project.

He felt Anderson's thin hand grip his own. 

"I told you they were real, Casey. That's why I wanted to know
where they go when the machine is turned off. Now I know. They don't
go away. They're still in there. It's like Brigadoon, waiting to be
reanimated. I know. Because I was there. When the nurse broke the
connection I was still inside."

"Listen, Toby," Casey said. "I know you think you were
in the computer world during the coma. But it's not possible. The
interface was turned off. Remember, the unconscious mind dreams too. I
think you just dreamed that you were still in VR."

Anderson squeezed Casey's forearm with a viselike hold a toddler
could have broken. "My boy, you've done a wonderful thing for
me. And you'll be rewarded. The doctors want to have at me again. More
tests. We don't have much time. Remember your promise to me. Finish
the modules. For them. And for me."

Before Casey could answer, Anderson broke into a spasm of coughing
that brought Dr. Charlton back into the room. As Casey squeezed his
friend's hand and said goodbye, he knew it was for the last time.

Casey stared out at the San Francisco Bay from his suite of offices
high atop the Embarcadero One Office Plaza. Tobias Anderson had died
shortly after that visit, still hooked to the VR interface. That had
been three years ago. There had been a whirlwind of expansion in the
VR industry in that time, with Casey's VR Enterprises leading the
way. Anderson's will had contained the reward he so often spoke
of. Casey received a sizable bequest, one that guaranteed that he
would never have to pursue VR research for commercial reasons. The
company still made games, though at Casey's insistence, research was
proceeding toward marketing virtual reality to hospitals and nursing
homes as geriatric therapy.

Casey removed the program chips from the VR interface in his
office. This module had tested out perfectly. 

Casey's chief design engineer, Kate Zarella, stuck her head through
the doorway of the office. "Going to lunch, boss?"

Casey looked at his watch. "I guess not. I'm going to install
the new module. Coney Island, 1945."

Kate said. "That won't take you too long. I've got a few things
I can tend to. I'll wait in my office." She shook her
head. "I can't believe you still spend so much time working on
those things. I mean, they're wonderful, the ones you've shown me, but
they're not exactly mass market."

Kate walked with him down the plush hallway. They dodged a bevy of
designers and engineers making for the elevator. Casey stopped before
a locked door marked ANDERSON INTERFACE.

"Why do you do it?" Kate asked him as he unlocked the
door.

"It's a promise I made a long time ago. I said I'd finish the
design concept. I've got two more scenarios to go."

"No one will know if you do or don't, Casey." Kate
shuddered slightly and rubbed her crossed arms to chase away the
gooseflesh. "The guy's been dead for years. And no one but you
ever goes in there." 

Casey smiled. "I won't be long." 

He closed the door behind him and opened the access cover to the
now-obsolete VR interface. A few moments later he updated the map and
closed the cover. The machine hummed quietly in the air-conditioned
room.

Casey flipped the monitor to ON. He spun the trackball on the
interface panel and panned the view perspective to reveal the
grandeurs of the premiere amusement park of the middle of the
twentieth century. Toby's memories of Coney Island had been vivid and
the wealth of existing newsreel and archival images of the place had
made Casey's latest module even more detailed and more richly textured
than the others. He was proud of it.

The amusement park teemed with summer revelers enjoying the elaborate
diversions that surrounded them. Casey's fingers paused as the view
perspective centered on a handsome young couple. A tall, trim man in
white slacks and blue sweater stood with a slender brunette swathed in
white crinoline. They were arm-in-arm, staring and pointing out the
wondrous sights on every side.

Casey's fingers flew across the keys of the manual interface and spun
the trackball. On the near horizon of the screen, in the line of sight
of the young couple, a bright red biplane swirled and looped a message
in smoke, How do you like it Toby?


In the foreground, the man took his right arm from around the waist
of the young woman and held his hand aloft, thumbs up. Then Toby
Anderson took Helen's hand, pulled her close for a hug and tender
kiss, and the two of them strolled toward the ferris wheel.

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

The Harrison Chapters                 At first the station was just  
                                      a speck, but ever so slowly it 
Chapter 17                            grew, its dapple-grey exterior 
                                      sheltering an ever-shifting    
Jim Vassilakos                        collage of light and shadow.   
___________________________________________________________________________

He stared out the window, silent and unblinking, as the stars
sparkled everywhere, thousands more than he'd ever seen before,
more than in any stellar database or navigation chart he'd ever
read. Each of them glistened, crisp and defined, against a
backdrop of the deepest black his eyes had ever known, and as his
dad tilted the stick, New Eden toppled into view, a ball of
shimmering blue with puffy white patches. Nod, the gas giant,
loomed behind with seemingly menacing intent, preparing to gobble
up its smaller neighbor within a swirling mass of orange and
yellow clouds should the life-sustaining world foolishly drift
too close.

"You know what that is?"

"Home."

His dad smiled, hopeful brown eyes betraying only the faintest
trace of sorrow.

"Look over there."

At first the station was just a speck, but ever so slowly it
grew, its dapple-grey exterior sheltering an ever-shifting
collage of light and shadow. Inside, machines crowded against the
bulkhead, some of them vibrating like washers, others sitting
quietly waiting for one of the doctors to float over and poke a
nose inside. The weightless was new and strangely discomforting,
and Mike held to the boarding rail for dear life. He didn't let
go until a intrusive finger tickled him up the armpit, and then
he squealed and soon found himself floating along the ceiling,
which he found to his amazement to be not so much a ceiling as
just another floor.

>From the new vantage, he could see several people mulling
about, quietly picking up test tubes, examining plastic trays
under an assortment of microscopes, and making notes on flimsi
boards. He and his father floated there, presently ignored in the
distended space of shooting neurons, until a middle-aged man
rounded the corner and approached. His hair slid golden and
wavy along his ears, the wrinkles he sported around his eyes only
serving to complement his warm voice, making him look even
friendlier than he sounded, as though that were humanly possible.

"Well...I didn't know we had a new pilot."

"Tan, this is my son. Mike, say hi to Tan."

"Hi."

"Welcome aboard, Mike. You helping your dad today?"

Mike smiled self-consciously, not really sure how to reply. It
turned out to be the right response, however, soliciting him a
tour of the base. Tan kept talking about the equipment, what all
the stuff did, how it worked, so much detail that the meaning of
it all got lost somewhere within the folds of his explanations.
Mike just kept nodding, floating to one of the numerous windows
every chance he got.

"So are you going to be a scientist, young man?"

"A scientist?"

"Ah...a scientist figures things out, answers questions...
fixes problems..."

"And creates them," his father interjected.

"I'm gonna fly a spaceship."

They seemed to think he was joking, and outside, New Eden
vanished behind the gas giant, the moment of its disappearance
creating a sloshy feeling inside his stomach. They ended up
sitting him in front of one of the larger windows along the outer
ring while the two men huddled together at a small, aluminum
table, drinking zardocha with spots of a lavender rum.

Quietly they exchanged their words, Mike tuning in only for
the most occasional outburst, and then listening for several
minutes before the phrases became intertwined like a sullen
melody, and his mind fell deeper into the dark, jeweled expanse.
At one point, he thought he heard his sister's name, spoken in
the sort of hushed voice usually reserved for dead relatives. It
was a moment he'd forgotten, until now.

"I guess it wouldn't help if I called you crazy."

"No."

"What are you going to do about her?"

"I don't know."

They sat silent, and then his dad spoke again, as though
clarifying the answer.

"It's not like they take every second-born."

"Nearly half."

"Yeah, well...she won't be on the list much longer. If she
gets chosen, I guess we'll have to make a run for it."

Tan grimaced, a tired, somber stare running along the table's
edge as though he were watching some insect crawl from one end to
the other.

"You know how that usually works out."

"Why do you think I keep a gun?"

"You fly a shuttle, idiot. You can always try to smuggle her
out. Tell them she died."

"And who'd take a girl from New Eden?"

"A good samaritan."

"Slavers, more likely."

"Well, James, there's risk with everything, even with doing
nothing at all. Sometimes I think you're more motivated by sloth
than concern for the consequences."

His father snorted, perhaps for lack of a decent comeback. "We
could all be exiled...sent to live with the infectious. You know
the penalties."

"So what are you going to do? Pray?"

"Believe me, I have."

"Oh?"

"We've been taking them up to the old church on seventh-days.
It's pretty much vacant now, except for the Baxsens and Culwrigs."

"I thought Bryan Culwrig caught the bug?"

"He did. I think the whole family may have it."

Tan shook his head, "Better find a new church."

"Was thinking about a new deity, actually."

Then his dad turned sideways and saw him staring back over his
shoulder, brown eyes meeting somewhere in the space in between.

"Ya ready to fly?"

Mike smiled, but when he learned the extent of the question,
his emotions turned toward unbridled glee. His dad sat him down
in the pilot seat, pointing to various switches. Mike's mind
swam. But, he learned that taking off from an orbital station was
about as easy as leaping off a diving board. Open helm access,
hit the disengage, switch on the gravitics and inertial
compensation, punch the aft thruster, and slowly bring it up to
full. So easy a child could do it, or so he'd proved.

He dad finally shook him by the shoulder as if to say "Good
work, I knew you could do it." But this time, the shaking didn't
stop, and he felt the craft rumbling, its windows shattering as
the hull exploded outward. He could see his dad falling toward
the huge gas giant, its bright clouds engulfing him. So bright,
Mike had to squint.

Johanes stood over him, shaking one shoulder while gripping
the other and hauling him out of the null tube. Mike squirmed,
getting himself dropped to the carpet for his trouble.

"C'mon Mike, time for another injection."

"I was dreaming."

"Congrats."

"That didn't feel like six hours."

"It was two?"

"Two?" Mike blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Thought
I had six."

"There's been a slight change in plans."

                       *          *          *

The headache rated somewhere between skull-splitting and brain-
boiling, such was its intensity. She sat back down, cursing
herself for such stupidity. Meanwhile, all the guards and
miscellaneous crew members stood around panicking, only one with
the self-righteousness to say it to her face.

"You gonna die?"

"No."

"Well, in that case, I told you so."

"Oh shut-up."

They had to wait several minutes for the gas masks, and Carla
kept everyone away from her, providing as much air as she could
fan in her general direction.

"One more dumb question sweetheart."

"Shoot."

"What's with the moustache?"

Hunter got back to her feet and tore the tiny white bandage
from beneath her nose. There followed a loud cheer, lasting all
of about two seconds, right until they came in with the gas
masks. Then dead silence reigned supreme, cut only by
intermittent squeaks and rustles as people either donned their
headgear or backed into the lift. One of the techies slid the set
of doors back open, again manually, and inside, it was as bad as
she'd imagined.

Erik: dead, a gun in one hand, a folder full of papers in the
other. Commander Simms: same status, face a light bluish tint.
Captain Dunham: not much better, at least his dark pigmentation
hid the deathly pallor, but the expression on his face wouldn't
help morale. He must have been screaming and thrashing about
right to the very end. Finally, there was the Commodore:
communicator still in hand, a blonde mane of hair sweeping over
her head, hiding the distant look in her hollow, blue eyes.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

They re-engaged the air filters manually and got the room
cleared out while Hunter took a browse through Torin's folder.
The papers caught her interest right away, the sort of thing
she'd expect to find in some archaic museum. Everyone used flimsi
leaf except on some of the outlying worlds where the technology
wasn't sustainable. One picture in particular caught her
interest. It was right in front, a small, balding man with thin
arms and a large forehead. He looked frightened, sort of wide
eyed with a sallow complexion. The name "Erestyl" was printed
underneath.

Brooks showed up not too much later, not that being any more
punctual would have helped matters. The nearest thing they had to
a commanding officer, he'd been on stand-by in the security
armory and didn't look particularly pleased by his sudden
promotion.

"This the work of the escapee, I take it?"

She nodded, loading the Commodore's body into a grav-sled. The
phosphorescent light shined off his dark skin as he watched her
work, a sort of oily texture that made him look all the more
determined. Then he picked up the folder, leafing through it
until he stopped at the same picture.

"What happened?"

"Cyanide gas."

He shifted his tongue into one cheek as he looked over the
corpses. His black, frizzy hair seemed to stand on end.

"Quick death?"

"Uh...about ten seconds. Twenty on the outside." She was
surprised he asked. "It blocks respiration between the hemoglobin
and oxygen-hungry cells." She took a deep breath, letting go of
the body, "They probably felt like they were suffocating.
Painless...but they knew they were dying."

"I understand you got a breath of it."

"Just a whiff, sir. Enough to tell me what it was."

"You can hold the 'sir', doctor. You're third in command now.
If myself and our illustrious chief engineer hadn't been too
preoccupied to attend this fatal engagement, you'd be captain,
not me."

She looked down at the floor, "Not necessarily."

"Come again."

"The commodore relieved me of duty just prior to when it
happened. I was just completing some final tasks in sickbay
when..."

He nodded again, as though she's just answered a lingering
question.

"Why?"

"A disagreement. She wanted to use our mind scanner on the
escapee. She also wanted a drug destroyed which might have saved
his life."

"I don't follow."

"We have reason to believe he's mis-medicating himself. If so,
he'll be dead within a day or so. There's a drug called Anamesa
which could save his life, but I got rid of our supply of it
according to the commodore's orders."

"Can he get more at Tyber?"

"Yes...but it won't do him any good. It'll be too late by
then. Since he's already as good as dead, are you still going to
order a full search?"

He stuck out his chin and sucked in his cheeks, probably
wondering what was going through her mind.

"You think he has more tricks up his sleeve?"

"It's a possibility. If we just let him go and let the
medication take it's course..."

"Fewer casualties for us?"

"Also, the Commodore wanted to capture him alive. Not kill
him."

"Why?"

"Apparently he has some sort of information. Torin was
interviewing him in sickbay just before he escaped."

Brooks nodded, but he didn't look terribly persuaded.

"I'll keep it under advisement."

"What about me? Am I still R.O.D. or what?"

"We may need your help if there are more casualties...but
until then, we'll honor the commodore's final order. Sorry
Doctor."

"I understand."

She about-faced and made a bee-line for the lift. Carla was
standing to one side, quietly stepping in after her friend as the
doors closed behind.

"You okay?"

                       *          *          *


"No...not really," Bernie leaned back in his seat, munching down
the last of a jelly donut as a self-satisfied smirk crept up the
side of his face. The guard seemed vaguely disgusted.

"Why not?"

"Look buddy. I have orders coming straight through the
commodore that these frequencies go down and stay down. No if's,
and's, or but's from nobody."

"The commodore is dead."

"Aha...sure. That's great. You want a donut?"

"Just turn it off."

"Look, I'm under orders here!"

Tabor came in a moment later, more than little breathless.

"We have to take the shouter offline."

"This is a joke, right?"

"No joke."

"What's going on? This guy's telling me the Commodore's dead."

"Long story. Just take it off."

Bernie shrugged, getting up to pull the plug on the most fun
he'd had since the time he impersonated Dunham's voice for a mess
inspection. The guard seemed satisfied, heading back toward the
lift, and Bernie was glad to see him go.

"Now that Captain Carnage is out of here, tell me what in hell
is going on."

"Something about poison gas. All I really know for sure is
that Brooks is in charge."

"Poison gas?! Sheesh, I pull a bunch of freqs for you and next
thing, all hell breaks loose. You're a real pain in the you-know-
what, you know that?"

Tabor stared back, an incredulous expression traversing his
face like a sonic wave.

"You think you're on the receiving end? I was right there just
before it happened. A few minutes sooner and it would have been
me dead, Bernie, so don't give me any..."

"Okay...okay. Take it easy."

He keyed open the comm-shed, switching the shouter off with a
flick on his finger.

"Look, I'm sorry, but you know that shutting this thing
down...I mean...you saw the free lanes. I just don't get the
logic."

"They're jamming one and two."

"So use the internals."

"No routing software. Somebody got inside the computer, killed
internal routing and erased all passenger records."

"Inside the computer? You tried going to backups?"

"It locks up every time we try. Tuto figures they punched
holes in the op-sys. Perfect, neat, little holes just to screw us
over."

"Neat holes, eh? That's great. Just great."

                       *          *          *