I roll up to Flipper’s as fast as Baller can take me, race from the parking lot, through the front doors, and over to the VR section. “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight” is playing over the sound system, tempting me to give in to fake nostalgia and go play the 80s games instead of walking into Kilroy’s traps, but I’m here on a mission. That same bitch that drugged me and sent me to Kilroy before is still manning the booth, and those spicy emerald eyes go from “welcome to paradise, Sailor” to “OH FUCK HE’S BACK” pretty fast. I get in line and nod at her as she helps the guy a few dudes in front of me, which cements in her mind the fact that yes, I do remember being drugged and carried off by her and her thugs. I could flash my badge and go to the front now, but it’s not the poor surf-punks in front of me in line’s fault I have unfinished business here. I finally make it to the desk and sigh. “H-howdy, Sailor,” she says, retreating slightly and sweating visibly, “w-welcome back--”
“Don’t worry, dipwad, I’m not going to do anything to you: we work for the same guy now, unfortunately. Put me in Pod 9, the ‘Out of Order’ one. You don’t need to scan my card; I know you remember me; put it on Professor Lawrence’s tab.” She nods knowingly, exhales with relief, and flashes me a blank receipt before crumpling it and throwing it in a tiny Pac-Man trash receptacle next to her booth.
I climb into the pod again and brace myself as my consciousness merges with my TeleTwin. All at once my awkward sexually charged encounter with Tela rushes back into my mind as the stupid, hopeful part in the back of my mind wonders if she’ll show up again once I’m in the Teleworld. She doesn’t, of course--it’s the same starfield with the same 3D “TELEWORLD” logo with no Tela to be found. I don’t really know where to go without a guide, or how to get there–I didn’t even go past this section before, I just kind of floated here, got groped on the lobby screen, then left.
“DO YOU NEED HELP?” an omniscient voice called out. Unlike Tela this seemed to be a prerecorded deal, like those fake robot calls that go ‘THIS IS THE CIA. YOU ARE IN TROUBLE FOR ILLEGAL DEEDS; YOU MUST SEND US A 500 DOLLAR GIFT CARD OR GO TO PRISON FOR LIFE.’
“Yeah, uh--”
“DO YOU WANT TO GO TO: PVP. SOCIAL. THEATRE. EXPLORE. OTHER GAMES. TELENET. PORN.”
“I mean, I probably want the last one, but that’s not why I’m here--”
As I’m bantering with the menu script, I notice that a single star behind me is glowing red and is actually tiny and close by instead of huge and distant like the rest. Without thinking I grab it, and with a rush of what feels like piercing electricity I’m transported to an odd wasteland.
I’m no longer floating--I’m on the ground, but the ‘ground’ is pure black and therefore functionally invisible to me. Floating glitched pieces of ads for dead companies from the Dot Com boom of the 1990s phase in and out of virtual reality around me as the head of a clip art dog blasts its way harmlessly through my head. Beneath me are paragraphs and paragraphs about neuronal technology, the potential of consciousness transference via said tech, and random rants about the Castlevania games, all in Comic Sans, interspersed with hilarious clipart gifs of creepy skulls and such. Similar content plasters the walls of this space too, though it’s nearly impossible to make out where the walls begin and end--I know they’re there, and I know there’s something I need to find here, but I’m grasping blindly to find it. After a loud CLICK, an old MIDI of Bloody Tears from Castlevania starts blaring through the vicinity, and huge 3D letters form above it all: “ROBERT ORIN’S HOME PAGE”
“That’s not my real name either, you know,” a familiar voice booms from behind me. “That’s the first two names of the character Kilroy in the full rock opera. Ironically, while his last name is Kilroy, his third name is Charles. Isn’t fate interesting? Synchronicity?”
I spin round to see Kilroy in full regalia lounging atop a blocky old UNDER CONSTRUCTION animated GIF that’s apparently solid enough to use as furniture I guess? “What is this place?”
“Over 99% of the internet is dead, Blake. Old pages that were deleted, that never were renewed, that were archived in tiny chunks by crawler robots but then relegated to the depths of the digital world. When the internet was adapted to be fully VR friendly in the TeleWorld Project, everything was translated into this 3D space and the oldest relics became surreal hideouts that aren’t even cataloged on their databases. It’s impossible to find this place without the mirror URL data that it originated from. I made this site, Blake, in TeleCities, one of the very first hosting services offered by the original Telecom after their name change in the late 1990s. As you can see, I’ve always been fairly consistent in my interests.”
“Holy shit,” I reply, rubbing the chill bumps on my arm. I recognized the term--Angelfire, Tripod, TeleCities; all original internet communities I thought were completely lost to time. This was like finding the ruins of Atlantis for me. “So I take it this was made in--”
“The late 1990s, yes–about a hundred years ago.”
“You really are immortal, aren’t you?” I reply in terrified awe. I test the solidity of a flashing “VISIT OUR GUESTBOOK” gif across from him before taking a seat on it.
“You figured it all out?”
“Of course, you dumbfuck. You made it too obvious with the lyrics. You aren’t Robert Jackson, but you’re not Lawrence Obliterate, either. Your consciousness may as well be a damn virus--you have some kind of ‘zero point’ connection in your mind to bodies somewhere, you set a literal dead man’s switch in your own mind so that whenever you’re killed, your consciousness jumps to one of those ‘volunteer’ bodies, formatting their minds in such a relatively gradual way that your own mind isn’t simply copied like a clone--your literal existence is transferred to them, and they are in turn linked to god knows how many other bodies in a similar state. In that way--”
“I live forever!”
“--you’re immortal. You use the mask and the get-up and voice changer to maintain a single identity for your followers, and they all line up to get a chance to be the next host of the virus you call your mind. You probably don’t even have to get dying or dead people lined up after Jackson; I’m sure almost anyone in your cult–or at least the inner circle of Skulls–would give up their mind, body and soul to you for nothing. You aren’t an ART--you never will be, you wouldn’t switch into one of those bodies because they’re all too unique, too traceable by Telecom. In a world of billions, you can easily be a dead human reborn with a new personality, name, and life and get around relatively unknown. You made a suit out of nanotechnology that conforms to your body giving you a robot-like appearance to rally your followers and keep the Telecops off your trail: an easy task, with the billions you throw into your projects.
“You control the Colonies through an intricate wall of front companies and a corporate-state government that only applies to your own little ocean world, though it functions more like an anarcho-socialist state. You do it all as the anonymous CEO of NanoTEC. Nobody can trace all your identities back, and nobody would ever guess NanoTEC, maker of so many beneficial medical technologies, is a front for a terrorist vampire sex cult. And while not all of your followers are ARTs, nearly every ART is a follower of yours. They aren’t satisfied with still having the Asimov limiter after the close of the ART Rights War. They want more Telecom blood, they want full freedom, and you sympathize with them.
“You want to give them a world where they’re not judged, where Telecops don’t grind them into the ground, where they’re not mechanical inhuman monsters, but just PEOPLE. Others call them monsters, but in the Skulls, there’s no prejudice or even difference, the tell-tale pupils of an ART are hidden under the masks in your own little equal utopia of free love, drugs, and occult enlightenment.
“What I can’t explain is how that all factors into you being a madman aimed at taking down Telecom. I don’t know where all your crazy occult shit fits in, and I don’t know what kind of madness is going on behind the scenes. I’m sure this goes a lot higher and deeper and more ancient between you and Telecom than even I’m aware of, and I don’t know at this point what exactly I’m trying to stop you from, or why you’re still trying to tie me into it, or who you or what you actually were… but I know it’s not just more drug deals or you wouldn’t be so hell-bent on turning me traitor and getting me to help you.”
“Well done, Detective!” Kilroy laughs, gleefully clapping his hands. “You’re so smart; A+ on your lyrical dissection exam, aside from the fact that I didn’t really mean anything by using that song aside from the pun in the title.” Oop. “But Blake, you don’t need to know who I was--who I am is all that matters, and why I am who I am. Telecom took everything from me, Blake, almost a hundred years ago. I used to work for them before they were even called Telecom. What you take as me being a raving conspiracy theorist lunatic is me only speaking from direct experience. I’m sure Araña told you about how they were behind what happened to Cass, and how it was intended to snuff you out? They want me dead for the same reason they do you–we know too much.”
“And what exactly do I know too much of!? Is this because I found out how to remove limiters?
“Well, partially that, but also… you were investigating a certain case, Blake. A case about a scientist high up in Telecom having child porn in his possession?”
“Johnson!?”
Kilroy coughs for a second and takes a deep breath. “This is going to be a lot to take in, and I know you have no reason to, but trust me. The abhorrent shit was from Telecom, made, produced and planted. It was a warning. He was planning on revealing the mission he was assigned to to the public–the Human Limiter Project. The child porn was leverage--a kind of, ‘we put this here, you know it, we know it, but if you breathe the wrong way, your ass is in FedTel prison where you won’t survive a day’ kinda thing. In your quest to bust this guy–tipped off to you by a hacker who stumbled upon too much, an arachnid you’re coming to know quite well–you became too close to finding out the REAL conspiracy, the mission he was assigned to. And Telecom knew you fear nothing; they know you’d blow the whistle if Mr. Johnson didn’t. You needed to be dealt with before you stumbled across that dangerous little sidequest in your investigation.”
I’m almost falling off my GIF now, my jaw agape.
“They needed you out of the way first. They can’t just kill you--you’re too high profile after your shitty book. Instead they decided to inject your ART fiancee with their own neural nanodrug, one that can install a new type of limiter with its payload, a limiter that makes one insane, violent, and powerful–think permanent overdose of all three Rapture varieties plus irreversible neural damage. Oh, don’t look so shocked, if you can take away a limiter after a brain image is activated, why can’t they add one!? There was still so much fear after the ART Rights War, the ‘Rogue ART’ story was such an easy sell from the Telecom-owned media giants that it’s hilarious. They hacked Cassandra’s mind and turned her into a killing machine to get you out of the way, Blake. A perfect two part operation--eliminate their biggest threat intelligence-wise and re-stoke the flames against ARTs, their biggest threat in terms of revolution. A populace of genius, angry, and combat-built artificial humans is their worst nightmare. Better to sway the rest of society against them up front.”
“Why didn’t they kill me after?”
“You were so torn up over Cassandra’s death that you dropped the whole case, and they ended up busting him on CP charges, anyway. You were no longer a threat to them–you’d have no reason to keep digging anymore, to find anything about the HLP. It was no longer riskier to let you live than to eliminate you.”
I just sat in stunned silence as I watched the pieces fall together in my mental projection. Was I working for the bad guy all along!?
“It’s a lot to take in, I know. More yet to take in--that record was made of constantly adapting nano-vinyl particles, so I was speaking to you in real time. I’ve been linked to your every thought ever since you first joined us in that drunken bender of yours thanks to Araña hacking your NeurOS for me. So… sorry about that.”
“WHAT--”
“Okay, now that’s on the table, I’m offering you one more chance--and this time, you really do know too much for me to let you go hobbling back to Telecom with your tail beneath your legs. You join me and help me stop them, or I’m going to end you myself. One of those two things is going to happen here tonight.”
“What does helping you entail, exactly? I need to know what I’m expected to do, and what the plan even is, to know if I want in.”
“Telecom’s HLP is simple. They’re going to use the Teleworld neural connection system to install limiters on every single user, including humans, under the guise of making the experience more immersive and efficient or some bullshit. The thing is, they don’t even have to make an excuse--they can very easily just do it without telling anyone. Who’s going to stop them? They can already monitor all the thoughts of every user while they’re jacked in--soon they’ll be able to literally reprogram people as they please.”
“So like MK Ultra, but more cyberpunk.”
“Bingo, but forget decades of subtle neurolinguistic programming and triggers and bullshit, they’re going right in. If you’re revolutionary, they’ll program you to love Telecom. If you’re dating someone they fear will put you in too much power, they can just make you gay or straight instead, respectively. Fry your mind entirely and say you had a heart attack. Program super soldiers to go to war with Russia or Foxcomm. Who the fuck knows? In any case, it’ll be a door that we can’t close once opened. Even people using non-immersion rigs will be targeted.”
“So what’s your solution?”
Kilroy stops and takes a deep breath. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable to spit out whatever he wants to say here, and it’s clear he’s trying to word it delicately. It’s also making me clearly uncomfortable. “Blake… before I continue, I must remind you that you can't make an omelette without cracking a few eggs.”
“What’s the omelette and who are the eggs!? Stop sugarcoating shit; I’m not falling for it.”
“The omelette is a world where everyone isn’t a slave to Telecom from the HLP. The eggs are those first few Telecom-loyal idiots we have to kill to get the point across.”
I jump from my GIF and land on his, seizing him by the throat as the MIDI ends. “You say we, Kilroy, but my job is to protect those people, even those Telecom-loyal idiots. I’m not going to kill anyone, and if you even so much as try, I’ll fucking--”
“Oh? You’ve killed pretty recently, haven’t you, Blake? What’s a few more thousand to the list? Are we really going to go into the whole ‘Stalin is worse than Hitler based on death toll’ argument? You’ve murdered already, don’t even think about moralizing on me.”
“What the fuck are you planning: tell me or I’ll blow your fucking brains out with my Guntlets.”
“Hahahaha! Blake, my dear, we’re in the Teleworld! Your weapons do nothing to me, you’re only holding my lovely little TeleTwin, and we’re not even on a PVP server–you can’t even ‘kill’ that!”
“What the fuck are you planning!?” I again demand.
“A simple warning to the people of Telecom owned jurisdictions of the world… I’ll tell them all exactly what I’m planning and that, unless they log into the TeleWorld, they’ll be in no danger! I’ll explain to everyone what I’m going to do, and that all they have to do is not be logged in when I do it. I’m sure Telecom will tell them everything is fine and dandy to protect their profits, and the ones who believe them over me… well, I’ll just have to fry their minds, all out mental destruction via the same patterns as our BS projectors, directly beamed into the mind. They’ll be living vegetables! People will fear the TeleWorld; they’ll see how vulnerable their vices have made them, how harmful it can all be, how little Telecom can and will do to protect them–and they’ll step away from them before the Human Limiter Project can come to fruition.”
“You know damn well nobody’s going to listen to some madman’s warning about not using the fucking TeleWorld,” I growl, gritting my teeth. “You can’t even use a NeurOS without being connected, nobody’s going to give that up based on the rambling threats of some twinky little madman in a mech suit. You’re insane if you think I’m going to just hop on board and help you kill untold hundreds of thousands to millions of people.”
“Even if it’s to save untold hundreds of millions of people from death, mental slavery, and war–and to ensure the freedom of humanity?”
“Fuck you, Kilroy--”
“They’re CHOOSING to die–and if they didn’t heed my warning, they’d just become slaves when the HLP comes to pass. You’d condemn me as a mass murderer when I’m warning the entire corporate state openly and saving so many millions!?”
“FUCK YOU! I’m not going to help you kill countless people because of a vague threat to security in the future that you’re claiming is going to happen. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it--in the meantime, I’m going to have your immortal ass in prison for so long you’ll forget the taste of the ocean air.”
“I see you are innately incompatible with my philosophy. Color me very disappointed--when you joined us drunk, I told you all this–‘blackout you’ agreed entirely! I suppose I was foolish to assume that a conversation you don’t even remember having is reflective of your true philosophy. But, before I kill you, I want to know something. If I told you I had rigged an old Tela of yours up to a similar immortality system, and brought a certain digital dead woman from your recent past back to life, in physical form--how would you react?”
“What!?”
“Answer my question.”
Could it be!? God fucking damn it, can I even say no if Tela’s back--and is REAL!?
“You’re bluffing. Why would you have done that?”
“Leverage. I’m nicer than Telecom. I can promise you, Blake, on my honor--she’s right in this very arcade, right now.”
“How is that poss--”
“ART creation is illegal after the treaty, but the treaty doesn’t refer to the Colonies. I have a perfect bodily ART replica with the original brain image, memories intact, and nanobots making up most of the body to make it a truly incredible and versatile feat of technology.”
“Let me see her. If you’re legit… I’ll reconsider.”
“Well, I’m glad to know you’re willing to sell out all your principles for some ART pussy, Blake. That’ll make me feel even less bad when I let her hack you to shreds. Oh, by the way, it’s not Tela, HAH, no, it’s someone else you know, who is my assistant now, buddy. I’m eager to watch this from my little security cameras with a nice cup of boysenberry tea! Hahahaha!”
The display turns to a fucked up test pattern, the MIDI fades to garbled static: then I hear only screaming, from outside the pod. The visor of the pod--and the entire front of the unit--are sliced cleanly off of my face, a chunk of my right cheek going with it, shlopping to the floor with a plup like a salmon filet. The whole thing takes place in slow motion frame-by-frame in my addled, not-properly-neurally-disconnected-from-the-machine mind. As the Pod crumbles away, I immediately see the tool that sliced it--a Flexiglass-cutter-tipped-blades chainsaw where a left arm should be on a tall, busty, crazy-eyed brunette woman in a black latex business suit. Tainted Love by Soft Cell begins blaring over the arcade’s loudspeakers, a rather ironic choice no doubt chosen directly by Kilroy.
I leap back, barely stumbling out of the TIP as it explodes into a shower of glitching red quantum ZPE sparks and smolders up towards the ceiling in the center of the room. People are running and screaming, with a few lining up along the room’s edges to watch the show and/or record on their Telaphones. Fuckers.
The woman lifts her right arm and in seconds the particles rearrange themselves in real time, forming a second chainsaw as she strikes a battle pose. “Ahhhh!” the sexy British voice moans, her tongue extending down to the floor to lick up my blood before retracting lizard-like back into her mouth as the glowing red eyes flash behind her glasses in orgasmic glee. “Your blood tastes just as delicious as I’d dreamed! This has been a long time coming, Master Blake.”