Virtual war, p.4
Virtual War, page 4
The stone measured only three centimeters wide on each side. “Let me,” he said, taking it from her. “My fingers are strong.”
The more pressure he exerted on the clamp holding the stone, the brighter the glow. Still, the piece was too small to cast much light. He was able to see Sharla more clearly than her blurred image at the War games practices, but not as well, in the dimness, as he would have liked. He saw that her hair was shorter than on the Go-ball court, yet it looked more golden. And her mouth! For a long moment he let the light shine on it. No virtual image could ever do justice to those full, moist lips.
“Better let the stone go out before They come snooping,” she told him.
They stood together in the dark, with Corgan resisting the urge to reach out to her, feeling awkward because he ought to be saying something and he didn’t know what to say. When two people were connected in the virtual world, conversation was easy. But here, with Sharla only inches from him, Corgan became tongue-tied.
“Uh …” All he could think of were the fractions of seconds being wasted while he stood there, as dumb as the stone in his hand. “Uh … what about me? Do I look the same as in my virtual image?”
“Exactly the same. No surprises.”
Corgan’s ears started ringing from the flood of sensations coursing through him, from the novelty of not only standing beside another human being, but this time, being able to actually see her. Talk! he commanded himself. A hundred phrases darted into his brain but shriveled there. What should he say?
Sharla took over. “Do you know that tomorrow we’re scheduled to meet our Strategist?” she asked him. “Virtually. Right before lunch. And tomorrow night, I’m going to bring him here with me. If you want to meet me here again.”
“Tomorrow?” A few seconds passed before Corgan nodded, hurt because she intended to let a stranger come with her the next time. Just when he was trying so hard to know her, to know how to act around her. He realized she couldn’t see him nod in the dark, so he mumbled, “Yeah, I guess it’s all right.” Then he thought, Wait! Is she going to think I’m not anxious to meet her? “I mean, it’s more than all right with me for us to meet again,” he stammered. “I mean, you and me. And I guess it’s all right if you bring him along. The Strategist. Do you have to?”
“Look, he’s just a little kid,” Sharla said. “Only ten years old.”
“Then what’s he doing on our team? Why would They put a ten-year-old with us to fight the War? That’s crazy!”
She rested her hand on his arm. “This kid’s a real prodigy. His name’s Brig. I’ve seen him in real life. When They show him to you virtually, he’ll look like an ordinary boy. But wait till you meet him tomorrow night.”
It was a strange feeling—trying to push down his resentment over some ten-year-old intruder at the same time his blood raced because her hand was on his arm. The brand-new sensation of human touch: he wanted it never to end. Who cared what this Brig looked like? As long as Corgan and Shark could stand together in the tunnel, Brig could look like one of those bodies consumed by flesh-eating bacteria, for all Corgan cared. Mendor had shown him images of those bodies, once, to convince him how important the coming War would be. “Safe, uncontaminated land is the most precious commodity on Earth,” Mendor had said. “Do you understand? Contamination has almost killed off the human race.”
“What if the kid’s infectious?” Corgan asked now.
Her laughter escaped before she could cover her mouth with her hands to stifle it. “Corgan, you really are funny,” she whispered. “Brig won’t be any more infectious than I am.”
Stumbling over the words, he asked, “Could you put your hand back on my arm? I like it when you do that.”
“Even if my hand has germs? Tell you what—how ’bout if I really contaminate you.” She reached up in the dark and brushed his lips with hers. “That’s called a kiss, in case you don’t know. Remember it, because I won’t do it again. From tomorrow on, we won’t be alone anymore. Brig will be with us.”
Corgan had never met Brig but he already hated him. “Then do it once more. Right now,” he demanded.
“Shhhh. They’ll hear you, and we’ll both be in trouble.”
“Would you like to hear how loud I can really yell?” he asked her. Then he said, “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that I’ve never been out of my Box before these last two nights with you, and I don’t want it to stop, and this stupid clock keeps ticking in my head, eating up the time….”
He felt her lips touch his face again, but this time, they lingered against his own lips a little longer—four and thirty-seven hundredths of a second.
“Good night,” she whispered. “Till tomorrow.”
“Did you brush your teeth?” Mendor the Mother Figure asked.
“Yes, I brushed my teeth,” Corgan shouted. “I always brush my teeth. I always do what I’m supposed to, don’t I?”
“What’s the matter with you today, Corgan?” Mendor wondered. “Why are you so grouchy?”
“Because it was a stupid question you asked me. You had to know I brushed my teeth because you know everything I do—I’m monitored every second of my life. Even in the Clean Room.”
That was not something Sharla had told him last night in the dark. It was something he’d figured out for himself as he lay awake, tossing and turning, remembering that kiss, not caring if his restlessness made all the sensors go off to alert Mendor.
Now Mendor’s image changed through several shades of green.
“I’m sorry,” Corgan told her. “I guess I’m starting to worry about the War. I think I need more practice sessions with Sharla.” He was twisting the truth, and he felt a moment of guilt. But the Supreme Council lied to him all the time, didn’t They? Making him think everyone lived in a Box, like he did.
“If that’s all that’s bothering you, we’ll increase your practice time,” Mendor said. “It’s good for you to be conscientious, Corgan, but you don’t need to worry. Judging from what our surveillance teams have learned about your competition, your skills are infinitely superior to theirs. There, I probably shouldn’t have told you that because They don’t want you to become overconfident. But you shouldn’t become underconfident either. Now, why don’t you relax a little before the first practice session? Do you want me to turn on Ocean Waves?”
“No. Not now.” Corgan realized he still sounded like a cranky child. He softened his voice and asked, “Could I please have the Isles of Hiva, Mendor? All of it—image, sound, smell, touch…”
Mendor turned pink with pleasure. “Splendid!” she said. “The more you learn about the Isles, the more you’ll understand our need to win them in a bloodless War. Naturally, the other confederations want the Isles, too…”
Corgan breathed deeply. The smell of salt water reached him, carried on the island breeze. “Mendor, when you say ‘bloodless War,’ does that mean there once was a war with blood?” he asked. “I mean, people actually bleeding?”
Mendor hovered halfway between Mother Figure and Father Professor: If Corgan started to ask hard questions, Father would probably take over. “Even as little as a century ago, people killed each other in wars,” he/she said.
“Yes, I know about nuclear bombs. But they didn’t make people bleed, did they? They just gave people radiation sickness, and that’s how they died.” Corgan’s attention was caught by a funny little creature with a shell and spindly legs. In the simulation, it skittered sideways across the beach. Corgan reached out a finger, but the creature dug into the sand and disappeared.
Mendor the Mother Figure was still talking. “Corgan, I realize that you’re growing up and you want to know more about Earth’s past, but we should wait until after the War,” she said soothingly. “Don’t clutter your mind now with unnecessary details. After you win the War for us, I’ll answer anything you want to ask me. I promise!” When Corgan slumped in mild disappointment, Mendor added, “Just be glad you live in a time when wars are fought virtually.”
The morning dragged as Corgan practiced alone. For two hours Mendor made him do P and S drills. In Precision and Sensitivity training, Corgan had to bring his hand as close as possible to a square of laser light without actually touching it. He couldn’t determine his closeness visually; he had to use the nerve endings in his palms and fingers to feel the strength of an electromagnetic field between his hand and the image.
From ten millimeters away, he couldn’t feel anything. Within one millimeter of the laser square, he would barely begin to sense energy. At five hundred microns from the image, the surface of his skin could perceive a tiny magnetic sensation. At two hundred and seventy microns, a slight tingle.
P and S workouts were the most difficult part of Corgan’s training, and the most important part, Mendor said, although Corgan didn’t know why. He’d practiced for two full years before he could turn the energy of electromagnetism into movement. It required all his concentration to bring his hands to within two hundred microns of a laser image—a distance the width of a delicate strand of a spider’s web—and still not touch it. But when he learned to do that, he could make the laser image move. By itself.
Only half a dozen people in the whole world—at least as far as the Council knew—had control as precise as Corgan’s. Because of it, he was favored, indulged, and given privileges that no one else got. On the down side, he was watched over and guarded every second of his life, day and night.
“Can I quit now, Mendor?” he asked after exactly two hours.
“Yes. Shark’s here, ready to practice with you.”
It was the virtual Sharla, still unfocused. Doesn’t matter at all, Corgan thought, because I know how she really looks. They can make her as blurry as They want, but I’ve seen the real Sharla.
“Recite the pledge,” Mendor instructed them. Since Corgan had to repeat the pledge before every single practice session—sometimes as often as five times a day—he said the words automatically and never thought about what they meant. Now he stared at Shark’s out-of-focus mouth, trying to decipher whether she was saying the same pledge or something different. He couldn’t tell.
“Ready?” Mendor asked. “Begin!”
They started with Triple Multiplex, a three-dimensional, three-layered maze that pitted artificial intelligence against Corgan’s decision-making speed. He performed so well that Mendor heaped lavish praise on him, and Sharla smiled.
They had three more practices. Sharla needed to adjust the program to handle twenty-five switched codes, involving Corgan so intensely that he couldn’t think of much else. He was sweating.
He asked Mendor, “Did you know we ran thirty-seven hundredths of a second over the time limit on that last game? If we do that in the War, we’ll be penalized.”
“Very good, Corgan. You caught that.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Your proficiency was a bit off in the first game,” Mendor said. “Not by much—just about three hundredths of a percent. Letting this last game run overtime by a fraction of a second was a little test They devised to make sure you were back on track. I told Them you’d be fine, and you were. Go to your Clean Room now and sanitize yourself. When you come back, you’ll meet someone new.”
Yeah, I know all about it, Corgan thought as moisture swirled around his naked body, as his hair got cleansed and his LiteSuit melted in the vapor before disappearing. He began to wonder—did everyone wear LiteSuits? For the sake of sanitation, these seamless suits of PVA—polyvinyl alcohol—were formulated to dissolve in water so they couldn’t be worn more than once. But they were expensive; especially the kind Corgan wore, which reflected subtle highlights of color to match the wearer’s mood. Sometimes he pretended to feel angry, then happy, then sad in rapid succession just to see how fast his LiteSuit could ripple with pale traces of gray or yellow or brown.
He’d have to ask Sharla if those people she talked about who lived in unsanitary dormitories got to wear LiteSuits. He’d ask her tonight. Except tonight, Brig would be with her. Ten years old! What kind of kid could be smart enough at the age of ten to plot strategy? And what was it about the way he looked? Sharla had hinted, but she hadn’t really told Corgan anything except that Brig’s virtual image would look a lot different from the way he was in real life.
When Corgan reentered his Box sixteen seconds late, the same faceless members of the Supreme Council were already there in virtual form, seated in the same straight line as before.
“Where’s Sharla?” Corgan asked.
“She’ll arrive later. After you meet your Strategist.”
Brig’s chair was in the middle of the row. Why did he need a chair anyway? Even real bodies didn’t need chairs—aerogel let them sit suspended in comfort. And virtual bodies didn’t need anything at all to hold them up because they were nothing but electronically transmitted impulses.
Except for his flaming red hair, Brig looked pretty ordinary. Corgan would never have guessed he was only ten. It was hard to tell what age he was supposed to be in the virtual image—not as old as Corgan and Sharla, but not especially young either.
“Corgan,” one of the Councillors said. Corgan didn’t bother to notice who was talking. “This young man will be your Strategist in the War. His name is Brig.”
“Hi,” Brig said. Corgan raised his hand in a small wave.
“You may be wondering, Corgan,” another one of Them said, “why we’ve waited so long to introduce you to your two team members. Have you wondered?”
“Not really,” Corgan answered.
Mendor suddenly appeared at the right shoulder of the Councillor who’d spoken last. “Corgan is an exceptional boy,” Mendor said softly “He rarely questions anything. He always does what’s expected of him, no questions asked.”
Corgan saw a tiny, scornful flicker cross Brig’s eyes, and wanted to punch him in the mouth.
Another Councillor spoke. “Wise elders on the Council decided it would be best to bring the three of you to your highest skill level as individuals, before letting you practice together. Do you think that was a good idea, Corgan?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
Brig butted in. “Several conclusions could be drawn. Why waste valuable practice time when our abilities weren’t yet at the peak of perfection? Now that they are—at least mine are—each practice will have greater value. Still, drawing on my instincts as a Strategist, I suspect the real reason hasn’t yet been mentioned. My guess is that the War rules prohibited us from meeting before now.”
Corgan’s jaw dropped. The Council members laughed and congratulated Brig on his clever answer; some of Them even applauded.
Ten years old! The little toad talked like an old man of forty! Corgan said sarcastically, “Brilliant deduction, Brag. I mean Brig.”
Mendor’s image flared into all the colors of the rainbow. Corgan had embarrassed him.
In a chilly voice the Councillor said, “Corgan, the three of you are required to interact in cooperation and goodwill. No rudeness will be tolerated.”
Corgan nodded, his cheeks flaming. He’d never before been rebuked in front of the whole Council.
Sharla appeared then, and Mendor the Father Figure announced, “You three will begin practice with an easy exercise and build to increasing levels of proficiency. Corgan, Brig, and Sharla. As a team! Starting now.”
Sharla, Corgan, and Brig the Mouth. Together for a whole afternoon. What fun.
Five
Eleven o’clock. Without even wondering whether Sharla had set the code, Corgan stepped out of his Box. Far down the tunnel, well past the door of his Clean Room, he saw a dim light flash on, then off. Sharla was signaling him to their meeting place, much farther along the tunnel than where they’d met before.
Moving silently, he reached her, took the piezoelectric stone from her hand and held it up to illuminate her face. “You came by yourself,” he said. “I’m glad.”
“I’m not alone,” she answered. “Brig’s here. Look down.”
Startled, Corgan saw him. He was only half as tall as a ten-year-old should be and his head was twice as big. His arms and legs looked spindly. Even through the cloth of his LiteSuit, his torso appeared twisted.
Astonished, Corgan exclaimed, “You’re a dwarf!”
“No I’m not! I’m a Mutant.” Brig’s real voice was high and childish, much different than it had sounded that afternoon, when it must have been electronically altered to make him seem older.
“A Mutant!” Corgan had never seen one; he barely knew that such creatures existed.
Wobbling unsteadily on his twisted legs, Brig stared up at Corgan. In the dim light his features looked grotesque—bulging blue eyes, ridged forehead, ears that stuck straight out from his head through a great mop of flaming red hair. His nose was too big and his mouth too small, but as Corgan slowly took in Brig’s appearance, he realized that shadows from the piezo light were exaggerating the boy’s weirdness. “I thought all Mutants were … um … kind of retarded,” Corgan said.
“Well, I’m a Mutant and I’m not the least bit retarded,” Brig huffed. “You’re right, though. Some of them are. Most of them are. Most of them die before they’re seven. But here I am and I’m ten and I’m brilliant. A lot more brilliant than you are, Corgan-the-good-boy-who-never-questions-anything!”
“Don’t be so prickly, Brig,” Sharla chided him.
“Well, it’s true. Corgan was bred for swift reflexes and incredibly precise control. But his brain barely hovers around genius level. Mine’s double genius.”
“And mine’s triple genius, so back off, Brig,” Sharla told him. “If you want to have a brain contest, you lose.”
“Corgan loses worse,” Brig muttered.
Sharla shook her head. “You can tell he’s just ten,” she said. “Still a big baby.”
“The only thing big about him is his mouth,” Corgan answered.
