Ghost in the Machine Ch. 01

Author's note: A huge "Thank You" to bikoukumori, for a fantastic editing job.

Also, thanks to fellow author redskyes, for encouraging me to publish this.

There are only adults in this story and no artificial intelligences have benn harmed in its making.

#1: Cat killed Curiosity

Rain.

Nothing but rain for the last few weeks. Never before have I seen so many, so awfully rainy days. I actually felt like being in the old 2D VHS of "Blade Runner," flickering, broken neon lights and old, barely working CRT TVs in the store windows of pawn shops included. I hovered in front of one of those, its grey, blotted PVC awning offered a bit of protection from the torrents pouring from the skies. The badly maintained TV screens plastering the window showed a nice cross-section of what we called television in the year 2030. So it was mostly adverts, in screaming colours, huge letters and lots of close-ups. Thankfully the store owner had the volume muted.

"The ultimate for home defence! H&K TK666, rapid fire, maximum stopping power. Never fear, HK is here!"

"The Iron Stallion implant - each night, every night, and she'll never know!"

"Channel XXX, because we know what you need. Male, female, whatever, we'll show it!"

"Cybernator WarMachine! The unstoppable battle cyborg! He's fresh out of the vat, but damn, he's angry! Rated T for Teen."

I decided that braving the pouring rain was better than suffering any more product placement and so I shuffled off, clutching a worn synth-leather duffel bag close to my body, moving towards the ominously looming spires of the apartment plex I called home for the time being. Most people had more common sense than me and stayed indoors in this weather, so my only company was the usual big-city soundscape, faintly echoing, distorted dubstep remixes of ancient '80s pop songs, punctuated only by the wail of police sirens or the throaty staccato of automatic gun fire.

Finally, the shadowy monolith of "my" apartment tower was looming over me. Only a couple dozen meters and I would be out of that blasted rain. I barely felt the icy blasts of wind whistling around the towers, probably a side-effect of the meds used on me in the corporate clinic where I got that interesting implant behind my left ear.

A tingle of anticipation pulsed through my body. I had worked my ass off until finally someone important seemed to notice that I brought reasonable results in my line of work and decided I was worth bringing into the big league. So, a few days ago, a mysterious Ms. Smith called me and offered the chance of a lifetime. I didn't get to meet her, instead they sent a car that carted me through half the city, I got the implant and the bag and was sent on my way, along with some instructions on what I should do with both. To avoid suspicion, they dropped me off a dozen or so blocks away from my flat, in a part of town where tricked-out corporate limos wouldn't raise an eyebrow. That's the main reason I had to wade all the way here.

I moved a little faster, trying to evade the flooded pot holes, and finally reached the front door. Fumbling in the pockets of my drenched black coat, I produced a scratched swipe card and fed it to the reader, once, twice. But apart from a status LED feebly blinking nothing happened. Frustrated, I slammed my fist into the cheaply-made reader and promptly got rewarded with a friendly jingle and the front door opening.

"Thanks, damned piece of scrap," I snarled and entered the dingy foyer, avoiding the lift on purpose and heading straight for the stairwell instead. If I was lucky, the lift just wouldn't work and someone would have lost his lunch in the cabin, but knowing my luck, some poor idiot was bleeding out in there. So I legged it up to the thirteenth floor instead. Renewed digging in my coat pocket produced a somewhat archaic-looking set of security keys, each made for one of the several locks adorning the door to my flat. I earned my living by messing up other people's electronics, so I entrusted my valuables to the tried-and-true mechanical locks, the best you could get with my paltry earnings. They were not affected by power outages and the skills needed to circumvent them were almost forgotten as well. Okay, if someone wanted into my room badly enough, they just needed to kick down the door, but at least the locks would hold, something I couldn't say about the hinges.

I pushed the door open and was greeted by the badly synthesized "me-owowowow" of my room mate, a "Totally RealKat(tm)". The cat-sized (and vaguely cat-shaped) ball of plastic fur sat on the floor behind the door and almost looked at me with it's fluorescent orange optics, meowing happily. I plucked it off the floor by the scruff of its neck which it promptly rewarded with loud, synthetic purring and placed it gently on the bed, followed by the duffel bag and my dripping coat. I kicked my boots into a corner of the room, where they ended up next to a constantly growing pile of take-out boxes and soda cans.

My apartment wasn't much to look at. Just large enough for a fold-down bed, fold-down desk and integrated wall closet. Who needs a kitchen in the age of self-heating meals anyway? Sharing the bathroom with three others was gross sometimes, but hey, it kept the overhead down.

On the desk were my previous tools of the trade, a jacked-up-to-the-max multicore i26 desktop computer, complete with inexpertly wired VR hardware. Taking graphic user interfaces a few steps further, today's secretaries just need to look good in their DataGlasses and VR gloves, thanks to a pricey selection by pretty much every fashion designer. And thanks to fool-proof operating systems, you didn't even need to be able to type any more, just pretend you're writing your stuff while holding a virtual pen and the magic of software transforms the movements of the VR glove into written words, pretend you tuck the written sheets into an envelope and the machine fires up the mail client, sending the document to the address specified on the envelope.

These principles could easily be translated to more illicit operations as well. If a hacker were to, say, crack a bank account, he wouldn't need to mess around with firewalls and security himself any more. He would just boot up a program that in VR, appropriately enough, looks like a brick of C4, plant it to the outside of the bank account, let the software do it's work, grab the valuable data (looking usually like bags of money or file binders) and get the hell outta there. Banks naturally don't like people like me and it all comes down to a game of cat-and-mouse, me trying to avoid the bank's security guards trying to trace my data trail back to my home address by routing my way through as many innocuous systems or masking my presence while the security guys try their darndest to catch me as quickly as possible so they can send the fuzz to my door. One of the reasons I usually travel light and keep at least a backup machine hidden away somewhere.

My thoughts returned to the present and the duffel bag, still laying on my bed. I opened it and pulled out a rectangular item, tightly wrapped in several layers of plastic foil. It's a little bigger than an old IBM keyboard and noticeably thicker. Almost reverently I removed the foil and lifted it up towards the light of the fizzling light bulb providing meager illumination. In the top right corner I could make out the stylized words "Infiltrator 2.0.3.0.". Apart from a few complicated-looking jacks, nothing would tell you that this thing is the bleeding edge of computer tech, something that, combined with the implant I just got, would make a second-rate data thief like me into a millionaire, if all goes well.

It takes only a few moments of frenzied activity and my old setup has vacated the desk, making room for the new machine. My RealKat(tm), which I christened "Gibson" in a fit of insipid irony, had occupied my rickety office chair in the meantime. Gently I picked it up and placed it on the bed again before taking its place, brushing my hands over the smooth plastic. Steadying my nerves, I connected the power jack on the "Infiltrator" with a wall socket, a second cable went into the black box which connected this flat with the 'Net. A flash drive containing my software library fitted easily into a port on the machine as well and finally, a pencil-thin lead went from the "Infiltrator" to a long, serrated plug between my fingers. Gingerly, I raise my hand towards my left ear.

"Think about it as the mother of all VR setups," one of the people attending the briefing told me. No trace of Ms. Smith, just some shadowy figures in a dark room, the kind of people who pay guys like me to get their hands on other people's dirty secrets. The kind of people who'd throw you into the sewers if you asked too many stupid questions. And we all know what's down there nowadays, right? Let's leave it at that. So I just nodded sagely and felt very happy that these guys thought me good enough to bump me into the top league, even offering me the computer equivalent of a Bugatti Veyron to do their work with.

When VR became too slow, we started using electrodes plastered to our shaved skulls. They stimulated the relevant nerve centers in our brains so that we could eliminate the milliseconds wasted while eyes and hands tried to execute the brain's commands. This system never made it past it's infancy, the thick bones in the skull caused the signals to feel all too staticky, like a slightly out-of-tune radio station. Instead, we upped the number of cores on our computers, optimized code or used parallel processing to be able to do several things at once, like scrambling the automated security systems and sending decoys through the system at the same time. Simultaneously the opposition stepped up their game too, with even better hardware, more manpower and devious traps, like booby-trapped data that would infest your system with hardware-frying viruses if not opened with the right combination of biometric data and pass phrases. Let me tell you, it's a jungle out there.

But somewhere, in some underground labs, the eggheads went through the skull to the heart of the grey matter, so to speak, and found a way to couple the brain with a suitably equipped computer. No more gestures. No more voice commands. Think. Act. Dance circles around the opposition. The stories coming down through the hacker grapevines were amazing, of cyber-ninjas blitzing the most heavily defended systems, robbing Swiss bank servers like they were ancient BBSes or shutting down whole corporate server farms as if flicking a light switch. It was unreal and everyone wanted in. Most of the eager ones disappeared and only the unfortunates showed up again, mostly in the newsfeeds to the tune of "an unknown body had been found, cause of death and identity unknown".

And here, a few years after the first rumours hit the streets, I was about to take my first steps into a brave, new, virtual world. Yeah, poor man's Matrix. But thankfully, I wasn't lying in a battery chamber. To keep my body from spasming around while my mind was out-of-town, so-called motion inhibitors were engaged, to keep me firmly planted on whatever surface I was sitting on. That's what the guys in the dark room said anyway. Shrugging, I slammed the plug home and my other hand flicked the power switch to "ON".

At first, nothing happened, apart from a fan in the machine revving up. Then, my vision was overlaid by strings of letters and numbers, reminding me of that one time when I saw an old DOS machine boot up in a museum.

Then, a soft jingle pinged inside my head and angry red letters flared across my vision:

"MOTION INHIBITORS ENGAGED! Please remain calm!"

Calm my ass. I wanted to yank the plug right out of my head again, this was seriously creeping me out. But nothing happened. Both my hands were lying in front of me and no matter how much I willed them to move, nothing happened. Before I could even begin to wrestle with my panic, everything went black.

***

I felt weightless, more like a ghost than anything. The blackness slowly thawed away and the columns of glyphs at the edges of my vision returned. Most of what I saw was gibberish to me, but at the top left of my vision, I could make out something like "Synchro %", with a constantly climbing number next to it. The higher the number went, the less blackness clouded my vision and the clearer I could see. Matrix this was not, instead I was floating in an octagonal room, the walls like matted, brushed aluminium, in its center a raised, octagonal dais. On that I made out the contours of a vaguely humanoid shape, wrapped up like a mummy. But unlike a mummy's, the bandages were made from faintly shimmering chrome fibers.

"Welcome, User zero-zero-one." I almost jumped out of my - non-existent - skin when a sensual, female voice purred at me, from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Her voice was just there, without going through my ears first.

"Um. Hi? Who are you? Where am I?" Not much of an eloquent gambit, I quickly realized. I would have shrugged, but I couldn't feel anything, not even my own discomfort at this situation. I wished they'd taken the time to walk me through this whole thing. But all I got during the briefing was "It's mostly self-explanatory, with skills like yours you will easily manage that, won't you?" Saying anything to that question would have made me look like a total n00b, so I just gave them my best 'cool dude' face and nodded again. A moment later, the voice returned.

"I will guide you through the first-time setup of your avatar."

Ah, that made sense.

Wanting to get things over with quickly, I simply replicated my real-life appearance, with a few artistic liberties, should I ever end up on a dating site. About six feet tall, curly, long auburn hair, grey eyes, a hint of five-o'clock-shadow, broad shoulders, muscular arms and long-fingered, dexterous hands. Add to this a toned, but not absurdly ripped body type, a small bubble-butt and a little more than seven inches of dick, and I was quite satisfied with my avatar's appearance. I wrapped the creation in dark blue briefs, tight jeans, a white shirt with a cat print, steel-toe boots and my favourite make of trench, then I saved it all and finished the setup by initiating the conversion process for my software, hoping that the new system was at least somewhat backwards compatible.

"Have a nice day!" the female ghost-voice purred before everything went black again.

I came to, laying on something extremely hard and uncomfortable. It took a moment before things clicked into perspective and I realized that I was now inhabiting the space where I 'built' my avatar. The metal underneath my back was cold, the jeans were extremely tight and to my amazement I realized that even in cyberspace, you could sport morning wood. Chuckling I hauled myself off that octagonal dais with electronically generated smoothness, saluting the OS programmers for all these little touches and took a few deliberate steps. The fidelity of my surroundings was awe-inspiring. Every step caused a metallic clang from the floor, I could feel the texture of brand-new jeans on my skin and even the cuff of my coat smelled like fresh, new leather. Un-fucking believable.

I knew that I was sitting in a dingy apartment, surrounded by the stench of old socks and even older, already marginally sentient take out leftovers, but these memories were quickly overpowered by this new reality I was in. It felt so much more real, and hey, the smell was an improvement too.

Sighing softly, one wall panel receded into the floor, granting me access to some kind of walk-in closet behind it, which I quickly entered. The wall sighed closed behind me again and I took stock of my surroundings. One wall had a door labelled "'Net", the one behind me led to "System and Options". Directly in front of me, a floating sign told me I was looking at "My Programs". I pushed the hovering letters out of my way and checked the contents of the shelves. To my surprise, most of my tools seemed to have survived the transfer from the old machine. A wallet, filled with a couple hundred bucks, for legal shopping in the 'Net. Another wallet, looking like a cheap croc-leather imitation and slightly rattling. Grinning, I picked it up and peeked inside. It was printing fake money, for illegal shopping in the 'Net. I crammed both of them into my coat and continued checking out my stuff.

The "Infiltrator" came pre-loaded with its own set of applications and data, fake swipe cards for the systems I was to infiltrate, new tools for disguise and messing up security guys. Whenever I touched an icon and slipped it into my coat, I instantly became aware of it's exact nature and how best to use it.

In a stroke of nostalgia, I took the almost pathetically low-res icon of my trusty C4 block and placed it into one of the pockets of my coat. The last item was the list of my favourites, appearing in a nifty, leather-bound notebook. I quickly flipped through the pages and stumbled upon a particular entry. "SuperSexyStoryLand".

I must have been a constantly horny teenager when I last looked at erotic fiction as a bandwith-conserving alternative to more exciting video content. That was way before SSSL had turned into a almost-exclusive VR porn site with all good content behind sky-high paywalls.

I thought to myself: "Maybe I should pay them a visit and treat me to some nice VR girls in the process before starting to actually, like, work. Hell, why not?" Giggling, I tapped on the name. It blinked twice and the sensual system voice announced that my destination was locked in, I just needed to think CANCEL to abort. I pushed open the door labelled "'Net" and took a step.

And suddenly I was falling, the wind of the descent whipping my hair out of my face, the tails of my coat snapping against my legs. Frantically, I tried to control my fall, brace for impact, anything. But then I noticed that there was a method to the madness. I was zipping along a gossamer trail of blue neon, towards a blinding galaxy of fluorescent, pulsing colours. I noticed other, differently-colored trails running next to mine and I realized that I was looking at other connections into the heart of the 'Net. As harshly as my trip started, it ended as well. Without warning, without apparent transition at all, I was standing in front of a gate, formed by glimmering neon bars framed in a pink, art-déco heart frame, the curvy letters on top of the heart proclaiming this the entrance to "SuperSexyStoryLand". I placed my hand on the handle, but a sultry voice with a thick Southern accent interrupted me.

"Not so fast, sugar. First I'll be needing yer User name, PIN number and voice imprint. Be a dear, yes?"

I came prepared. Instead of giving her what she wanted, I pulled a thin wire from one of my coat pockets and fed it to the lock underneath the handle. The thin wire dissolved into a neon-green stream of zeroes and ones, pouring into the lock like Chianti into the mouth of a mindless trophy wife. Fearing that my little trick might have tripped some silent alarms, I prepared to leave in a hurry, but instead of burly bouncers converging on me, I was rewarded with a solid 'CLICK' and the door creaking open a bit. The lockpick had crumbled to listless dust between my fingers. Brushing the remains off my hands, I pushed the door open with my shoulder and entered the halls of Lit. I felt supremely powerful. Porn sites were nearly as tightly secured as online bank accounts, at least those that charged their clients. No one wanted a second Petraeus-gate after all. Gaining entry so easily was a good first step.

The place had definitely changed since the last time I was here. Gone were the low-rez, chintzy corridors that my VR headset coughed up, something like a cross of brothel-meets-DooM. Instead I was walking through a cozy, carpeted hallway, everything looked clean, professional and well-organized. I could even smell the perfume of a couple that just went from the lobby into a cybersex cubicle. Was that just my imagination, a sub-routine of the Infiltrator or did this joint actually feature this level of virtual reality? Deciding not to test my luck, I cast a quick glance around. Thankfully, the doors were clearly labelled. They even kept the old story archive. I quickly pondered if I should get the whole archive of "Strange Days" before visiting something more exciting, like real VR futa, but then I turned towards the door labelled "Premium Content", getting out my fake-money wallet in the process. If I could keep this machine, there was no way Lit could keep me out any more. So, just one quick VR porn and off to work then.