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Curious.
A mouse and a passing similarity to mouse.net. The combination makes one think
of three people: Mouse, Page, and Victory. Mouse is the human who created
Page, and Victory is a copy of Page. They all program similarly, being, in
some ways, a template of the same person.
One instantly suspects Victory a creature that this one has never much liked.
It will be a pleasure to see her again.
Finding Victory is not complicated. She is always in the same place. However,
the problem with wanting to see Victory is that she is shackled inside the
combat computer of Emmaline McNaughton, the now famous rogue Inquisitor. Alas,
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McNaughton is not an easy person to gain access to; there's always a queue.
So one stands in line with all the others.
People are gathered from all over the world. Some of them appear to just be
spectators, watching all the activity come and go around McNaughton's
presence. There is a bit of a festival atmosphere. Someone has scripted the
area to look like a wide grassy valley, like a fairground. At the bottom
stands a tent made of various fabrics: gold lame, checkered cotton, solid
green silk. It looks a bit like a stereotypical gypsy tent, the sort inside of
which you might find a fortune-teller.
Avatars camp out in the LINK-space, sitting on blankets, talking among
themselves, sharing stories about whatever pearl of wisdom McNaughton graced
them with. People carry numbers showing where they are in the line. One
quickly procures a chit from a young girl with a flower tiara on her head. The
number this one pulls is forty-seven. Not bad, at least if the counter outside
of the tent is to be believed. There are only three people in front of this
one. The flower girl smiles. "It's because you're a VIP. Some people wait all
day."
One bows a thank-you, then finds a sunny place to curl up and wait. The wind
has a chill to it, and one wishes one was larger and more powerful so that one
could make it just a tad warmer. One tucks one's nose into one's tail and lets
out a huff of air.
"Dragon of the East?"
One looks up to see a young woman. She has lank hair and dirty, ripped jeans a
strange affectation among the glitter and polish of the LINK.
"Do you remember me?" she asks.
Accessing one's memory, it is an easy matter to place her. Nearly a decade
ago, she had come to Page and this one looking for answers from a messiah.
"Yes, of course. Your grandmother was dying when we last spoke."
The woman nodded. "Your advice was good."
One had told her to stop wasting time on messiahs and to spend as much time as
she could with her relative. "This one had hoped so."
"So& now you believe in Emmaline too?" she asked, watching me curiously.
"No, this one is here to see the AI that lives in her head. Victory."
The woman frowns. It occurs to one that perhaps not everyone knows about
Victory. After all, despite the fact that the AI was responsible for the
hijacking of the virtual Temple Rock and possessing an Inquisitor who then
shot and killed a number of people, she was never accused of any crimes.
McNaughton took responsibility for it all.
"Never mind," one says, thinking that perhaps one has a bit of leverage when
negotiating with Victory.
It is nearly an hour before one is allowed into the holy presence. One is
asked for a donation, offered autographed curios, and patted down for viruses
by two burly, uncouth guard programs. Somehow all the hassle makes asking to
talk to the AI that much sweeter.
"You want who?" McNaughton's virtual face looks puzzled. The irony is, of
course, that Victory is clearly visible. She appears as a shadow of a metallic
skull where cheekbones peak, a dust of chrome glitters, and slight darkness
haunts the hollows of the Inquisitor's eyes. McNaughton has gone to some
trouble to disguise the AI, but an eye familiar with Page/Strife sees her
instantly.
"Victory,''' one repeats.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." McNaughton's avatar does
a terrible job of covering the lie. Her face twitches.
"Victory is an old friend of this one."
McNaughton squints as if trying to place an unfamiliar face. "You're Kioshi's
gofer, aren't you?"
"Dragon,''' one corrects. "Grrr."
She laughs. "Dragonette, more like. I always figured Kioshi exaggerated about
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his, er, size, but really, you're much smaller than I expected."
"This one would really like to talk to Victory now, please." Talons fiercely
grip the cushion of the chair that one is perched on, and one wishes they were
around McNaughton's throat.
"Did he program that into you, that affectation? 'This one'? It's quaint, but
a little, well, demeaning. Don't you even get to think of yourself as an 'I,'
as a being separate from Toyoma Enterprises? Maybe I could give Kioshi a crash
course in Feminism 101 for you? Or maybe Artificial Intelligence rights?"
One can feel one's talons cut deeply into the fabric. Back ridges stiffen with
tension.
"Try it out for me," McNaughton continues. "I'll let you see Victory if you
can say this phrase: 'I want Victory.'"
One levels one's gaze, looking as fearsome as possible. "Victory, please."
"Ah, not quite. Try it again."
"Victory, please. Or this one will expose Victory's existence to the world."
McNaughton sits back slightly. "Threats. How interesting. Is this little quirk
so ingrained that you can't even try it once?"
Of course, one can say the words. It has become a matter of principle. "One
wonders. Would you have to go to prison again for her crimes since she is
fused into your head? She shot several Paris police officers. No one has ever
been named in that crime, have they?"
"Fine. But you should try it some time, Dragon. Thinking for yourself can be
surprisingly liberating."
With that parting shot, she leaves, or at least agrees to become the silent
partner. The Inquisitor's face quickly transforms. The metallic skull pulls
forward, and short dark curls lengthen and grow straight. Her skin darkens to
a slightly more Arabic color.
"What do you want, Dragon?"
"To know what your part is in the game. One was offered entrance by a mouse."
Victory barks out a laugh. The sound is different from that of McNaughton's.
It is crisper and more militaristic. "I can't leave this wretched head, this
Allah-forsaken body. How would I have a chance to make any mischief in the
world? I am effectively already imprisoned."
"The code is similar," one insists. "Familiar."
"Well, if it's so familiar," Victory snaps, "then perhaps you should look
closer to home. What is it that Toyoma Enterprises is so famous for? Games, is
it?"
One's mouth has opened to comment, but snaps shut. The temperature in the room
suddenly feels colder. A shiver runs along one's scales, making them quiver.
The power drain, the lack of resources to keep this one running & it all makes
an eerie sort of sense.
"You're looking a little smaller since the last time we met," Victory says.
"Trouble at home?"
"Yes. I think so," one says.
MORNINGSTAR SEX SCANDAL
Entertainment News (December 2095)
Jerusalem, Israel Fidelity and celebrity never mix, it seems, and previously
untouchable media darlings Sammael Morningstar and Emmaline McNaughton have
finally joined the ranks of the sullied. LINK-clips of a rather randy
Morningstar started rolling in early this morning. First, he flirted quite
outrageously with a receptionist at Kfar Shaul Mental Health Center, Israel's
premier mental hospital, where he was reportedly taking a tour, and then,
later that same afternoon, fell prey to the charms of twenty-three-year-old
religious studies Hebrew University student Ilyana Stepchuk. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]