Cyberaser

Cyberaser

Christopher Hunt

based on an original screenplay by D. Dominic Devine

Published by Mutant Robot Books at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Hunt and D. Dominic Devine

Cover by Christopher Hunt

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Table of Contents

Reviews

Foreword

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Reviews

...better than BLADE RUNNER. This [story] has real vision. It has TRUE STAKES, both on an immediate, personal level (as does BLADE RUNNER), and on a larger, macro-level (as BLADE RUNNER never managed). It does things with technology which I never even conceived of making [other sci-fi] scripts fade in comparison...

I heartily recommend this script: this guy can tell a story!

The writer has a strong sense of the world he is creating, and I admire his technical skill in depicting it.

...very good action sequences...well paced and exciting.

...the story sucked me in and I couldn't wait to finish it. Our hero ... really grew on me. The pace was quick and the descriptions detailed. I could really see the action and special effects happening.

The above comments were made by writers on the American Zoetrope website regarding the screenplay upon which this novel is based.

Foreword

Cyberaser (aka: Ascension, aka: Meltdown) is one of those stories that ‘got away’.

It began as a screenplay in 1995. I’d .mentioned the idea to a few film industry friends and the feedback was unanimous -- movies about virtual reality do not work. Look at Tron!, they all cried.

But I was certain Tron failed because the world it was set in was so artificial-looking it failed to be a threat to the characters who inhabited it. But in Cyberaser, Earth was the computer program, so creating a sense of real danger and excitement would be effortless.

After a year of research, I started the screenplay. The first draft was completed in ten weeks. It had to be, as I had a contact at Disney who had offered to read it based upon a synopsis I’d sent him.

Ten weeks later, I sent him the screenplay. I also sent it to a friend at James Cameron’s company, Lightstorm. A few weeks later, my friend got back to me. It’s brilliant, but I have some news you might not want to hear. There’s a similar project at Warner Brothers.

It took nearly a year for me to get hold of the screenplay for The Matrix. By then, The Matrix was well into production, and an auction for my screenplay, in which I had stood to make at least half-a-million dollars, had been canceled at the last minute when The Matrix was green-lit.

When I finally saw The Matrix, I had to admit I liked it a lot. While I felt they’d missed some great opportunities I had covered in Cyberaser, it was still really good. Really good. Kudos to them, I thought. And so my screenplay was put in a drawer and forgotten about…

Until now…

Everyone that read Cyberaser was blown away by its vision. Some of its ideas have yet to be explored. So when I heard about the self-publication facilities now available via e-books, I thought, What a perfect opportunity to bring to an audience the ideas this story contains.

A novel had already been written based on Cyberaser by a tremendous young writer named Christopher Hunt. So I contacted Chris and asked him if he’d like us to publish Cyberaser as an e-book and he said Absolutely! And so here it is.

You’ll find several things in the novel that are startlingly similar to The Matrix. My favorite is the virus speech made by Agent Smith in The Matrix, although in Cyberaser it’s about sharks (I have to admit, the virus metaphor was a better one). But Cyberaser (the screenplay) was written before The Matrix was available to read and possibly even before the Walchowski brothers had even written their screenplay. No one’s to blame for this. It happens. Call it a Zeitgeist thing.

D. Dominic Devine

London, January 2012

Prologue

December 17th

Los Angeles, Shell #1, 1213,

Atlantis Corporation VR Research Lab

10:32 am.

Outside the sky glowed.

Ryan could feel the raw necrotic rays of the sun burning into the back of his neck like white-hot needles. A warm drop of perspiration collected in the hollow at the base of his skull, hung suspended there for a moment, and then trickled slowly down his spine. Even here, inside the cool, climate-controlled VR lab, protected from the solar-ravaged atmosphere by the insulated Ceramiglas dome that arched over the two-mile wide biosphere, there was no escaping the persistent, ever-present sun. It even seemed bigger these days, as if it were slowly coming closer, preparing to crush the Earth in its heated embrace.

He glanced out the concave wall-to-ceiling window, his eyes flickering across the wasteland that separated the biosphere from the sprawling ruins of the Dead Zone — the crumbling, plague-swept wreckage of Los Angeles. Shrouded with a muddy chemical haze, the ruined city stretched across the baked desertscape in all directions, tumbling into the saltwater marshes of Malibu Beach and bumping up against the glassy mud escarpment of the San Fernando Hills. Its deadly streets prowled by the vicious underlings of the brutal warlords who had carved out their own private fiefdoms amidst the chaos, the Dead Zone pulsed with poisonous thoughts and noxious vapors like a hyper-metastasizing cancer.

He shivered involuntarily. Unlike the civilians of the Shell Biosphere, who had been ‘programmed’ not to give the abandoned masses outside a second thought, Ryan found himself thinking about them all the time. He could almost feel their accusing, angry eyes upon him now. Millions of people, abandoned by the corporate and government elite’s, left to fend for themselves in a world ravaged by disease, hunger, war, and the increasingly vicious and unpredictable vagaries of the weather.

And rising above them like a high-tech castle, the Shell biosphere. Insulated from the brutal climate by its Ceramiglas dome — perfectly translucent but harder than tempered steel — and protected from external infiltration by an array of impenetrable security systems and an army of highly mobile, heavily armed security personnel, the Shell represented the culmination of the eternal divide between rich and poor, mocking those trapped outside its walls with the promise of a future they would never see.

The barbarians really are at the gates, thought Ryan.

He folded his arms across his chest. Beneath his finely cut linen suit his skin prickled with anticipation. He smoothed his palms against his trousers, then rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, his fingers brushing briefly across the hard cold edges of his Implant.

Having an Implant had never bothered Ryan, although he knew that other Shell Executives regarded them with paranoid weariness. As far as he was concerned though, it was nothing less than a benefit. Designed to enhance intelligence, his small cranial implant linked into the Shells’ WorldNet, giving him instant access to the vast repositories of data stored on computers around the world. However, a quick scan of its contents earlier on had already told him that the answer to the present problem was not to be found there. In truth, Ryan hadn’t been surprised. It was possible the information was there, somewhere, but could not be found. After all, the Implant’s primary purpose had never really been about accessing information - at least, not the Implants designed for Shell civilians - for while Ryan’s ‘Executive Implant’ allowed immediate downloading from the WorldNet via microwave technology, the more primitive civilian Implants were aimed at monitoring them, and conditioning them to unquestioningly acquiesce to the imperatives of the Atlantis Corporation. Finally, and least importantly, Ryan had often thought, Implants had the powerful and precise benefit of allowing each civilian to be Custom Configured so that they performed at optimum capacity.

Sure it bothered some of the more paranoid Executives to have an Implant, thought Ryan. Particularly since Founder Bates did not. But in a community so precariously balanced, a community that literally lived on the edge, Ryan understood that nothing could be left to chance. Not even freedom.

He glanced again at the reclining bodies of Pierson and Glover. The two research assistants were fitted with open-face head-mounted displays and strapped into podular flexform VR couches. Their feet and hands were encased in form-fitting rubber, intricately patterned with a dense array of circuits and sensors. Wires and cables dangled loosely from chairs, connected to a complex array of monitors and computer systems. Amid the chaos and confusion of the lab, they lay undisturbed, apparently sleeping. A tech hovered over them anxiously, her hands flying across a keyboard as she brought up status reports.

The tech leaned back from her keyboard, spinning around to face Ryan and the scientists who had gathered around her. Everything checks out, she said, failing to conceal her nervousness. Bio-signs...normal. Neural activity...normal. REM...negative. They're conscious, sir. And they're not hallucinating.

Ryan had personally vetted both Pierson and Glover. Their ‘Custom Configuration’ had meant that their psych profiles were now as close to perfect as it was possible to be and still be a real, live human being. Not a hint of paranoia, no signs of mental instability. Even their dreams were dull.

Yet the images that were being ‘projected’ from their minds on the overhead monitors bore no resemblance to the virtual reality simulation they were supposed to be experiencing.

Ryan grunted. Then if it’s not them, it's the simulation, right? Something’s gone wrong with it. He switched his gaze to the chief scientist for confirmation. Alderton?

Alderton shifted his bony shoulders slightly, a vague, almost imperceptible shrug. If what seemed to be happening, really was happening, he thought, it was an enormous breakthrough. The implications were incredible. Yet Alderton had no idea how they had done it. What was happening was technically impossible. Or, at least, that's what he had thought until a few minutes ago.

Well, he began, I guess it could be the simulation. He paused, perhaps not believing a single word he had just said. It’s just there's still a lot we don't understand about the brain. We're familiar with the mechanics, the process, but we still don't ...

I’m perfectly well aware, interrupted Ryan, of the limitations of scientific understanding of the brain. He stared pointedly at Alderton. What's your point?

Alderton scrunched his eyes, blinking rapidly.

Well, we know that our perceptions are manufactured inside our brain. Input sensory data is processed and filtered but only has meaning when the brain gives it meaning. He paused, flicking his tongue over his dry lips as he noticed the increasing look of frustration on Ryan’s face. But each of us is different. The world I experience is different from the world you experience. So in that context, meaning per se is entirely subjective….

Goddam it, Alderton! Ryan rolled his eyes and waved at the monitors. Just tell me what the hell you think is going on here!

Alderton smiled weakly, unable to move. He swallowed. Well, er, the truth, Sir, is…er…I don’t know, Sir.

Ryan glared at him. Then find out! he demanded.

Of course, Sir, replied Alderton. He glanced at the over-hanging monitors. Shadowy images of what appeared to be a huge circular balcony enclosing a grand central atrium flickered unsteadily on the screens as if shot with a handheld video camera. Red and amber emergency lights cast a surreal glow over rows of coffin-like glass-topped metallic boxes that lined the inner edge of the balcony. The dusty tiled floor was strewn with cables and junction boxes linking what looked like computer terminals, the blank faces of their terminals staring mutely out at the coffins like high-tech headstones.

Alderton frowned at the monitors. What he was seeing made no sense at all. It couldn't be another simulation because he knew all the other programs and this one was by far the most sophisticated. This was meant to be the Smithsonian Museum Simulation. The entire program had been cobbled together from high-def tour videos supplemented by 3D computer graphics. The Smithsonian had seemed like a good choice. With so many of humanity's treasured institutions and monuments carelessly destroyed by the mindless Dead Zoners, reconstructing them in VR seemed like the right thing to do. A gift to posterity.

There were plenty of other VR programs around, of course. The military had videoed every nook and cranny in the surrounding Dead Zones, matching the images with 1:1 scale map co-ordinates and feeding them directly into displays mounted in the helmets worn by the security troops. The technology was extensively used in medical applications as well, giving surgeons a viral-eye view of the human body. But none came anywhere near the level of realism he was seeing now. More importantly, with the few exceptions created by his own team, no other program was compatible with the new prototype headset, which interfaced directly with the brain, rather than with the eyes and ears. The Smithsonian simulation had been designed specifically for this prototype. His assistant, Clare Bright — and where the hell was she, anyway? — was also working on another variant for the new interface, but as far as he knew that one wasn't quite ready yet.

Alderton squinted at the screens representing Pierson's POV. The glasses he wore synthesized the two images, alternating frames in rapid sequence to create an impression of three-dimensionality. It was better to stick with one POV. Switching between the two sets of monitors could be disorienting.

Alderton watched as Glover's virtual representation suddenly lurched in front of him. Unlike the hard-edged, crisply detailed VR environment, Glover's image seemed slightly out of focus, almost translucent, pixelated like a holograph. He was the only thing Alderton could see that looked unreal. But there was nothing unreal about the expression of astonishment on Glover's face.

Glover was staring intently out of the monitor.

"Are you getting this, sir?' he said, gesturing towards the shadows. Alderton watched as Pierson's POV followed Glover's pointing arm, revealing the long, curving hallway lined by the hundreds of large metal boxes faintly illuminated by dull yellow globes fixed to the ceiling at regular intervals. Pinpricks of red and green light flickered in the shadows.

Alderton’s soft voice spoke to the monitors. What is it?

Glover shrugged. Don’t know yet, sir. He sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. You smell that, Sue?

Pierson's POV bobbed up and down as she nodded. Alderton gasped as his stomach jumped. He pulled off the glasses.

Smell? he demanded. You can smell something?

Glover shrugged. Smells like.... He paused, wrinkling his nose. Disinfectant, said Pierson.

...And mold, added Glover. Disinfectant and mold.

Suddenly Ryan hissed in his ear. I thought you could only get limited sensory feedback? He leaned closer. Alderton could feel Ryan's hot breath on the back of his neck.

Alderton stared at him, dumbfounded. Ryan was right. The program only provided for a limited level of interactivity. It offered full, 3D high-resolution visuals, of course, and wideband surround sound. It also provided a rather primitive form of tactile feedback that allowed the VR surfers' to feel the virtual floor beneath their feet, to touch things, even to pick things up. It'll feel kind of squishy though, the head programmer had told Alderton. But what the program didn't allow for was any sophisticated form of sensory feedback. Far too much processing power was required and it hadn't seemed important. That sort of full sensory VR was for the future; it wasn't even on the drawing board yet.

Alderton tried to remain calm. His heart was pounding. If this were possible, it would have been a major achievement, a significant step forward for the Shell. But it wasn’t possible. Not in Alderton’s wildest dreams, was it possible.

Doctor Alderton? It was Glover. Sir?

Go ahead, Glover, said Alderton.

We're getting additional sensory feedback, said Glover. He sounded nervous, as if something else was bothering him. Something not apparent on the monitors.

What do you mean, additional? What senses are we talking about?

All of them, sir.

There was a moment of stunned silence, as his words sank in.

All of them? repeated Alderton hollowly. He didn't know what else to say.

He's right. It was Pierson. Her soft, musical voice sounded distant, off-key, like the discordant sing-song of a schizophrenic. She was looking at one of the metallic boxes. The box looked like a glass-topped coffin. Inside a young woman floated in a gently swirling ice-blue mist. The woman's eyes were closed. Her skin a deathly Grey.

Pierson's hand appeared on the monitors. She stroked the perspiring glass top of the coffin. Her hand moved across the translucent surface of the coffin, gently stroking it. It’s cold, she said, almost matter of factly.

Pierson hesitated. She lifted her hand to her mouth and it filled her monitors. Her tongue flicked out, licking the moisture from her fingers. Water, she whispered. Slightly salty.

Jesus Christ! said Ryan.

He turned to the technician at the keyboard. Whatever you do, don’t turn this simulation off. Don’t touch anything. Not till we find out what's happening.

Sir? She glanced nervously at Alderton, brushing stray strands of hair off her face, looking for confirmation.

Alderton nodded. Keep it running, Alice.

He turned to Ryan. I can't explain it, but hopefully when we get a chance to analyze the data...

He was interrupted by a commotion behind him. A pair of burly security guards, beefed up on steroids and protein compounds, were stepping out of the glass lift. Their slab-like hands gripped the thin arms of a young man in a lab coat. His face was pale in the fluorescent glare, wide, blinking eyes darting rapidly around the lab.

Ryan regarded the man dourly. Who's this? he said.

The man stared back, almost reverently. Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!

Apparently his name is Leo Star, said one of the guards. Programmer, Third Class. His data profile is brand new. Like he was just awarded a Shell Citizenship award, but there’s no other records on him. No residency, nothing.

Ryan didn't say anything. It wasn't official. But Shell Citizenship Awards were no longer being handed out to applicants from the Zones outside. Which meant that this man's DP had to be faked.

The guard continued. Apparently, he snuck in here earlier. He didn't have the right clearance so the security program flagged him.

The other guard waved a thick arm towards a data card slot in the main drive bay. He put something in there.

Ryan turned towards the bay, saw what the guard was pointing at, a slightly grubbing looking device that had been inserted into an otherwise pristine piece of hardware. He reached a hand to remove it.

Wait! Alderton hurried forward.

Ryan paused. "What?'

That could be what’s causing this. Eject it, and we could lose everything.

Suddenly, the wild-eyed young prisoner began to laugh hysterically. Oooooh! What to do, what to do, what to do?

Ryan spun around. Glared at the prisoner.

Alderton backed away, edging around a console. There was something wrong about the prisoner; like he had an Implant glitch perhaps. And though he’d never seen one, he’d heard what they could do. Implant glitches could overload the brain, causing a Grand Mal seizure. If this skinny little freak seized, all the testosterone-enhanced musclemen in the world wouldn't be able to hold him down.

Alderton didn't want to be anywhere near him when it happened.

You can't stop it, warbled the prisoner. No, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. It's the one. It's the one. It's the one... He fell to his knees, gazing up at the ceiling, still muttering fast.

Ryan turned and looked at the suspect device, hesitated, then pushed the eject button. Hard.

No! cried Alderton. But it was too late. A wafer-thin rectangle about six centimeters square popped out of the drive. Ryan held it up, stared at it for moment. He frowned. On one side, the device had a plug-in interface, one that matched exactly the interface on a standard-issue Implant.

Alderton glanced at the VR monitors. The images were still there. He stared at the screen, watching through Pierson's POV as she followed Glover from one coffin to another. There were hundreds of them, spiraling down into the darkness. On the periphery of Pierson's vision, Alderton made out another circular walkway overhead. Silent escalators gleamed mutely in the amber gloom.

Ryan waved the rectangular device at Alderton. So, what is it? he demanded harshly.

Alderton stared at it. It looks like a standalone Implant plug-in, but I've never seen... His words faded, lost in the midst of his confusion.

Ryan shook his head and turned to face the prisoner. He crouched down in front of the man, leaning close, his face almost touching the other man's. Where did you get this?

The prisoner shook his head, eyes bulging. Ha! Do I know? What do I know? You know I know you know. It's the one, Sir. It's the one. Take us into the light away from meaty mayhem. We will ascend. Become one with the Atlanteans where we all become One and One becomes all. Eternal light. Eternal mind. Forever and ever... The prisoner's voice faded, his head nodding rhythmically, as if listening to music that only he could hear.

Ryan stepped back. My God, he's a Trode! He stared at the device. This must be a Juicer.

A what? said Alderton.

A Juicer. Ryan's voice was detached, as if it had disengaged from his mind, which was now wandering elsewhere. A software narcotic. Outsiders use them. In the Dead Zones.

But it didn’t make sense, Ryan thought. Juicers were designed to produce seemingly random ‘static’, ones and zeroes without rhyme or reason, as a means of scrambling the user’s mind. So why was a Trode Juicer producing such a sophisticated virtual environment? No matter how clever they were, no matter how good their hacking skills, no Trode could possibly have designed software of this caliber. Any Trode with any kind of ability would have long ago been tagged by the Atlantis intelligence department and awarded Shell Citizenship. That, or be terminated as a possible threat.

Ryan lowered the Juicer and looked up at the overhanging POV displays. None of it made sense. They were still out there — Glover and Pierson — in a world that shouldn't exist.

***

Glover stared into the abyss. A vast atrium ringed by circular walkways like the one he was on, stacked one atop the other. A cylindrical tube rose up through the center of the atrium, intersected by a network of bridges, like the hub of a wheel. It reminded him of something. The scale was different. This was so much bigger, but it was disturbingly familiar.

Glover. An urgent hiss. Come here.

He edged along the railing, stepping over a tangled web of cables and junction boxes. The cables fed into an opening on the side of the pillar Pierson was standing in front of.

Look, she said. A blank screen was embedded in the pillar. It looked like an ABM terminal. A faded map sheathed in Perspex was fixed to the wall above the terminal. She squinted at the map, reading out loud. Metroplex Shopping Center, 12th Floor.

Glover whistled softly. A shopping center!? What do you think, Sue?

Pierson didn't reply. She moved away from the terminal, and leaned over the coffin, staring thoughtfully into its murky interior. It's all too weird, she thought. Too fucking weird...

Glover stepped over to the terminal and touched the screen. The blank glass brightened, immediately filled with a blue background and the words, Welcome. What would you like to do? A list of options appeared. Curious, Glover tapped the first one,