Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Read online

  Next to the Colonel's computer was yet another computer, in front of which the Doctor himself took a seat. Pinched for time as they were, they paid no great deal of attention to whose computer was to be used for the Colonel's demonstration. Orval had grabbed up one of the spares belonging to some Junior Assistant.

  As per the Doctor's instruction, the Colonel entered the prescribed program. This was an outdated trainer for first generation F-16 jets. He was acquainted with this program, but hadn't seen it in years. He was amazed that it actually functioned on the current operating system, considering that it was based on an old 3D wire-frame graphics engine. Of course, back when it had first been implemented, it was considered the fastest and safest technique available, not to mention the cheapest. It probably had saved a couple hundred billion in cracked-up planes alone. However, by today's standards and today's planes, this was not very impressive.

  Now it was the Doctor's turn. The Colonel didn't actually witness the power's being turned on. The brief, yet lengthy flicker of numerals denoting the registration of processor speed was his only indication. Otherwise, from the point at which Kwibee sat down, to the point when IBOT's desktop actually came on line, the expanse of time was, for all intent and purpose, undetectable. If he hadn't known better, Terrance would have sworn that Kwibee had only switched on the monitor.

  As he completed the link, Orval noticed his expression. "Research and Development, Colonel," he answered the question yet to be asked. "It's all part of the same package," he continued before Hereford could interrupt. "IBOT had to be based on hardware capable of providing sufficient latitude. In order to accomplish that, we had to develop our own hardware."

  "Hardware?"

  "Storage and containment was the original problem. Development had fits over it for years. Then we came up with the Sphere drive."

  "Hardware development is fine for research, Doctor, but you're never going to get approval for mass production when your funding is based on upgrades to programming."

  "You'll only need the one unit, Colonel, unless you intend to train more than fifty thousand pilots at a time."

  "Oh."

  "Hard drives as you know them function on disks. Our drive is still based on skuzzy technology, but the design is spherical. Disk drives are limited, in that they can only function in two dimensions of operation. The Sphere drive functions in all three dimensions, and it does so at a velocity approaching that of light. This dynamism allows for the mapping of such complex structures as the marriage between human and virtual memory, or storage and containment, if you prefer."

  Prefer what? thought Terrance irritably while still wondering how to pronounce the SCSI label beneath the hard drive's indicator light.

  "Unfortunately, this result prompted yet another problem. The heat build-up appeared to be insurmountable. Fortunately, the final solution turned out to be rather simple. The sphere was given an internal power source, which in turn enabled us to incorporate the processor into the same unit, thus providing remote operation through the drive's chassis, which remains hard-wired. The drive was then suspended in a vacuum through opposing magnetic fields, which also serve as data conduits. Once the overall package was submerged in liquid hydrogen, the majority of problems one might expect with heat build up were eliminated. Then, thanks to yet another of the government's included supplements, we were able to base the entire substructure on Nanotube technology. This reduced the remainder of our heat levels to an acceptable and indefinite range. Other than that, the entire package is no more than the most basic of components needed to allow the DIT to function externally."

  At this, the Colonel casually folded his arms together, and then slowly relaxed against the chair's backrest while raising one eyebrow. This was one of his more successful poses. It offered an unconcerned bearing while still projecting an expression of both interest and authority. Most important of all, it concealed his unavoidable ignorance.

  "Now, for the purpose of this demonstration," Orval continued, "we will suspend the standard adjustment of settings usually made by the program. After all, the only purpose here is to allow you to get an idea of IBOT's abilities."

  "Uhh…okay."

  "As you can see, I've selected a relatively primitive trainer. I'm sure you've no doubt seen this one before. As a matter of fact, this program wasn't actually capable of functioning on this system. I had a few adjustments made in order to allow it to operate, but I assure you it's still the same program you remember."

  "I hope you aren't about to tell me you've spent the last twenty-five years and forty billion dollars on refurbished software, Doctor."

  "However," continued Orval, ignoring the Colonel's continuous display of bombastic ignorance, "when IBOT detects the virtual target, it will initiate enhancements designed to elevate the same detected program to a level of realism rivaling that of our own reality. To do this, IBOT literally consumes the program by transferring both it and the user's connection to the sphere drive, thereby allowing its enhancements to take place and insuring a maximum integrity of all security lockouts."

  "Program transfer?"

  "Whether or not the subject or subjects are to maintain their original identity structure is a matter of direct transfer, or re-allocation of the subject's identity by either manual instruction, or by initializing IBOT's deductive computations to determine the proper structure in relation to the situation."

  "Identity?"

  "One point to remember: once these parameters are set into motion, they cannot be altered without compromising the integrity of the program. What's more, if IBOT's security interprets any such compromise as a threat, it won't allow the alteration without the utilization of a specialized filtration program that I developed as a diagnostic."

  "What has any of this to do with flight…?"

  "Pilot reactions in training cannot be properly evaluated if they're aware that there is no actual danger. IBOT removes this element, thereby securing the integrity of the test. It can be utilized with any of your simulators, and the pilots wouldn't even be aware. Even the most experienced of pilots won't expect a test initiated by remote. The subjects being tested can be placed in any situation required, programmed to believe the situation is as real as required, and then have the entire experience erased, if required."

  "That doesn't sound like anything I was ever briefed on!" exclaimed the Colonel.

  "My research has been funded for the sole purpose of maximizing pilot performance. Nothing was ever stipulated about any sort of restrictions, so long as I provide results!" It was the first time he had ever raised his voice to Hereford. It was also the first time the Colonel had ever balked. Damn, that felt good!

  "Furthermore," he continued, hoping to avoid any further discussion on the topic of appropriation, "if these new developments test out successfully, the entire concept of education, medicine, and many other applications in general could change the way in which our entire society functions."

  "How so?"

  "Why psychoanalyze when the problem can be seen directly? Why hold a trial when you can just display the facts? Why spend two or more decades of your life in school when all you need do is download?"

  At this, the Colonel raised an eyebrow as the implications began to set in. Orval could tell the man was caught off balance. It was time.

  ***

  08/01/10-4:00 AM-{Location unknown}

  "In this demonstration, you will be maintaining your identity structure in order to maintain an objective evaluation."

  "I appreciate that," the Colonel intoned. He was becoming a bit irritated with this flamboyant display. "Let's just get this over with."

  ***

  08/01/10-4:01 AM-{Location unknown}

  Colonel Hereford sat drenched in sweat, his heart beating so hard that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. Momentarily, he came to realize not all the moisture he felt was from sweat alone. "I had no idea!" he finally managed, and then made as if to stand, knocking the mouse over in an
attempt to brace himself as he discovered that his legs had not quite recovered the process. He quickly dropped back to the chair, allowing himself to take full advantage of the backrest.

  "Are you all right, Colonel?" Orval asked, exhibiting genuine concern.

  "Hell no, I'm not all right!" he exclaimed, not quite managing a shout. "You just placed me smack dab in the middle of World War Three! I was just about to get a MiG enema if you hadn't pulled me out when you did!"

  "I assure you, Colonel, you were perfectly safe…"

  "Why in God's name did you leave me in there so long?"

  "How long did it feel like?"

  "Well… I don't suppose it could have been more than eight or maybe ten minutes, but I assure you, ten minutes is an eternity when you're in a dogfight, not to mention that I was outgunned!"

  At this, Kwibee's grin broadened as he relaxed within his own chair, adopting a pose of satisfaction not entirely dissimilar to the Colonel's own recently lost composure.

  "Was that your idea of a joke, Doctor? Because if it was, then you're one sick son of a…"

  "No, sir. I meant no disrespect, though I did feel it was necessary to illustrate the program in such a way as would have an impact."

  The Colonel's expression had long since lost its quality of polished authority, but at the mention of the word "impact," he involuntarily shuddered, as the lingering memory of his impending conclusion when the MiG's last missile fired came rushing momentarily to the forefront of his attention.

  "As a matter of fact," offered the Doctor in hopes of distracting the man from his obvious state of outrage, "the entire experience was not eight or ten minutes. Your consciousness was disrupted for…" Orval double-checked the readout. "For just under nine seconds. Of course, the sequential ratios will fluctuate according to the program's taxations and allowed resources, but we're working on several developments we hope will eventually allow better control over this aspect."

  The Colonel looked up from the growing wet spot on his trousers. "Are you telling me that this program of yours altered my perception of time?"

  Orval smiled. Perhaps the situation was still salvageable after all. "It's not very complicated. Our subconscious is much more"-he searched for the right word-"pliable. It accepts a much larger spectrum of information."

  "Pliable?"

  "Perceptions made by our conscious are riddled with preconceptions that don't exist in our subconscious."

  "It didn't feel as if I were unconscious, Doctor," the Colonel returned dubiously.

  "No," corrected Orval. "Subconscious is not a prerequisite for unconscious. Our subconscious is active from the moment we're born to the moment we die. It governs a great deal of our perceptions, so much so, that once it becomes the primary medium of input, then it is a very simple matter to create as real a situation as can be conceived, or perhaps even greater than can be conceived if left up to the program itself."

  The Colonel was still confused. He needed time to think. For the most part, the Doctor's descriptions were lost on him. He began to stand up, but was still somewhat shaken from the demonstration. He had meant to use the desk as a brace, but his hand came down on the mouse, yet again.

  The first time, he had turned it over, thus causing the cursor to position itself over the games directory, which then automatically opened. The second time his hand came down on the now upturned mouse, the cursor shot across the games folder.

  As Colonel Hereford regained his balance, he caught the mouse just as it was about to fall off the edge of the desk, but as he grasped it, he inadvertently clicked the primary selection button, thereby initiating the executable for an online game one of the programmers had only recently installed after seeing it advertised. The assistant had wanted to get a better look at it as a possible candidate for future research in virtual enhancements.

  As Wayward Fates began to patch into its online server, Orval jumped to intercede, but was too late. IBOT had never been deactivated. It had simply been idle, waiting patiently for the next assignment.

  ***

  "Colonel?" someone asked in a concerned tone.

  Terrance glanced up at the evocation of his title. The strange fellow now poking his head just inside an even stranger set of doors was disregarded, as Terrance focused on the door's unexpected appearance: three-inch iron-oak, carved in elaborate symbols of what appeared to be some gaudy type of royal crest.

  Although usually slow to engage, the Colonel's sense of alarm was now, as he might have termed it, at Def-con One.

  "Colonel?" repeated the Orderly. "Are you all right?"

  Colonel Hereford slowly scanned the room he now occupied, his initial impression being that the decorator had attempted a cross between an Elizabethan sitting room and perhaps a Flintstones version of something like a military command center.

  Orderly? he thought, suddenly wondering why he should know anything about the fellow at the door.

  Before he could answer his own question, other alien thoughts began to infiltrate the edges of his peripheral consciousness. I really should invite the Magistrate to Tea, and I wonder if that blasted Tailor is finished with my corset yet.

  ***

  -Subgenus One: Strophe One.-In his deception of indignant disdain, did Lord Abhoron enliven the archetypal Dyadic Dryad to relinquish the Light for his seductive promise of false fortune. Once lost within that twisted influence, their fates entwined in spiraled paths of crafted damnation. Thus began the most accursed and lugubrious of all winters.

  In the end, when the last embers of their true heart's light faded, what remained of their foredooming souls were then set upon a new propagation of dark and abhorrent rendering, and forged in the dark and perfidiously cobalt portraiture of Malignancy itself. Therein lies what all would come to grieve as the birth of The Dark-elf, and The Dark Empire!

  Chapter One-Not A Pleasure Krues

  "Yes, Captain," replied Elder Pynewood patiently. "We've already dispatched an escort. In fact, we are just as concerned as you are. Our Squire was given his assignment over six days ago. Assuming that your soldier returned along the same route, our man should have intercepted him at the rendezvous by now."

  "And yet you've received no word?"

  "Well, at the time we felt it was crucial that he maintain his post. This was heavily emphasized in our Edict. I did send a messenger to contact our Squire, but she was unable to locate him. Still, I would venture to guess Squire Thistle has probably centered his vigil on the shipping port itself."

  "Just one moment," Reginald scowled. "What rendezvous point?"

  "Why, the one we indicated upon your original request. It is the closest available Hub for that region."

  "No, milord. I assure you, I was never informed of any such thing."

  "We sent a messenger with that information just after receiving your request for assistance," confirmed the Elder adamantly.

  "Well, I'm afraid your messenger never reached me."

  "Captain? The messenger in question reported she placed the scroll directly in your hand."

  "And where is this person now?"

  "I really couldn't say. There were no further assignments, so she took her leave. Our people are either given Quests upon application, or their availability. Please understand that we aren't structured like your military. When an assignment is over, our people may come and go as they please."

  The entire situation smelled of deception; not on the Elder's part, but something… "I wonder," he began, and then paused.

  "What?"

  "Well, there have been several reported sightings of a dark blue figure in the sewers who purportedly cast a spell, and then appeared to have a lighter, brown skin. This in itself is not uncommon. There are a number of Human Enchanters in Arbitos. What was out of the ordinary was the color of that individual's skin before casting."

  "Another Faction?" intoned the Elder softly.

  "Possibly. A Human Enchanter would be unlikely to alter his form to that of a Dark-elf while in
side the city, even if it were in a secluded spot. Such practices are simply too perilous. What's more, if he were Human, why would he need to cast a spell to return to Human form when all he need do is to allow the illusion to fall away?"

  "Really, Captain," the Elder scoffed. "Wognix, here?"

  "The sightings weren't given any real credence. Beggars and drunkards will often tell stories. Nevertheless, we did search the entire aqueduct system. We cleared out a number of undesirables, but they were all Human. In retrospect, I suppose that if an Enchanter of another Faction had been among the ousted group, we may never have known it."

  "You believe the messenger I sent was an imposter of some form?"

  "Not of your knowing, milord. I would never think such a thing of any of your people. However, if a foreign Enchanter has taken the form of one of your people, then we've both been fooled. And if he was hiding in the sewers, then he certainly isn't doing so now."

  Elder Pinewood's focus shifted from Reginald to the receding shadows about the Grove. "Unfortunately, I will be completely tied up until later this morning, Captain. I'm currently in the middle of having my things sent to the Embassy, but as soon as I arrive in Arbitos, I will personally send for another messenger to contact our Squire. And rest assured that we shall get to the bottom of this matter."

  "Yes…of course. And as always, the wisdom of the Council is most appreciated, milord."

  ***

  Borin Krue hung over the railing, near the bow. The massive vessel had been reputed to offer a much easier passage than smaller ships of its class, though he had failed to notice any such improvement.

  He leaned over the side, just far enough to avoid making eye contact with other passengers as they strolled by. Dark strands of sweat-soaked hair fell in his eyes, but went unnoticed. His attentions focused almost solely on the contents of his stomach, which were currently attempting to escape as he gripped the railing more tightly, his gauntlets leaving deep indentations in the oak. In truth, he would have no doubt felt much better if he just let it happen. He knew this, but also knew it would not be seemly for a Warrior to be seen tossing his lunch overboard. After all, he was a representative of his Garrison. True, he was only a Corporal, but after this Quest he was sure to be promoted.