Run With the Hunted 2: Ctrl Alt Delete: Run With the Hunted, #2

For Jim

Chapter One

There’s a dead pixel in the sky. Once I notice it, I can’t ignore it. My eyes keep dragging up to look at it, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. It’s an itch I can’t scratch, a smear on the lens of my immersion. Plus, I don’t know how long it’s been there, and that bothers me.

The moon is always somewhere real-time appropriate. They tried the stars, in beta, but it took far too much bandwidth and nobody wanted a project like that. Now most places, it’s flat black at night, sometimes cloudy. Just the moon. Sometimes a comet, if one is visible to the naked human eye real-time. It’s ridiculous, what people bicker over when given the forum. Not a surprise. Just ridiculous.

So now that’s my pet project. I spend my time adding stars. My personal night sky is a complete one, and when I have the time or the urge, I go through the old Hubble and Cassini and Kepler photographs, so if I want to spend time virtually lying on my back on a mountain or rooftop, just looking at all of the stars mankind had ever heard of, I can do that. I upload it to the public servers, little by little. My VR immersion rig is built from the best one money can buy, but the others are catching up. Managing the data better, with solid states and local nodes and the new fiber infrastructures.

I sometimes go to Carnivale in Venice at night time, since VR’s the only place you can visit Venice anymore, the crenellated buildings all scanned and then rendered true to life, buildings which aren’t standing in Venice anymore, sucked into the mucky lagoon or swallowed up by the waves or what have you. The twinkle lights, the gondolas. Everybody there is always all dressed up and masked. It adds another dimension, the party plus the game of IDing human or program. It isn’t easy like it used to be. On impulse, I stop a man in a giraffe mask and, through my unicorn mask, ask Do you see that in the sky?

He looks down at me, and then up at the night sky, shakes his head. See what? he asks. He’s human. I’m good at the Human or AI game. I’m not good at dealing with people in real life.

Nevermind. Bug hunting. He nods and goes on his way. A SpaceX constellation shimmers by, reminding us all who we have to thank for worldwide internet. 

My nose itches and I wrinkle it distractedly. Next would be to find somebody in the same VR node as me, using the same service provider. Theoretically. Except my VR node is just mine, paid for in an isolated jungle in Mexico, my rig built by hand piece by piece and hooked up to the local fiber after greasing appropriate political palms up the ladder, through intermediaries. Intermediaries are much better than me doing it. This could be real bad. 

I move off the street, out of the crowd, and start my immersion exit protocol sequence to boot out of VR. It’s been awhile, actually. Longer than a public protocol would’ve allowed. Public protocols existed for a reason, I’m happy to acknowledge that. But really they’re unnecessary limits. Turns out, when you have the money for it, anything’s possible.

The Carnivale around me fades away, the sounds and smells first, then the sights, like an old fashioned photograph un-developing, and I’m left temporarily with the flat gray haze of the non-waking state. It’s drug induced, meant to be a body-brain buffer between the shock of VR immersion and consciousness, or vice versa. It isn’t necessary if you’re just upright using a VR headset. It isn’t necessary if you’re still just living your life. 

Do I feel a needle sliding into my arm? I’m cotton-mouthed, not quite conscious, unable to protest. I like being more awake before the post-immersion wake-up meds. 

After a moment, things come into sharper focus. The room’s still dim, but ambient sounds return, the hum of servers and their water coolant, a compressor somewhere. Breathing, my own and somebody else’s. The flat plastic smell of the carpet, still pretty new, mixed with the antiseptic smell of the medical equipment for VR immersion, the IV rig, all of that. The grass and gun oil smell of the intruder. I open my eyes slowly; eyelids tend to stick, especially after so long.

Dolly grins down at me. Hey Bits, she says. I wasn’t sure tapping your machine with a hammer was the best way to get your attention, but I guess it got the job done. Hope I shot you up with the right stuff once that light turned green.

Oh Jesus Christ, Dolly, what’re you doing here? I ask hoarsely. And why didn’t you just message me?

Well actually it’s a good thing, ‘cause it looks like you’re here all by your lonesome. Empty IV bags aren’t good for anybody. She drops a needle into the sharps container; it’s really just B vitamins. I think.

There’s failsafes, I mutter, looking at the IV tree, but Dolly’s right, those bags are empty. I rub my eyes. How’d you even find me?

Oh you know. I got my ways, Dolly says, like that even means anything.

Why’d you even find me? I try.

Well. I gotta find somebody.

I’m not working right now, Dolly. I try to sit up, fail, and Dolly steadies me against the back of the cushy immersion chair.

Yeah, Bits, I can see that. But I got something I need your help with. Lucky I actually know how to get you back on your feet.

I’m starving. Starving not starving. I can’t eat real food right away.

You stink too. How long were you under?

I reach for the data and it isn’t there. I don’t...I don’t know.

Dolly gives a low whistle. Shit, Bitsy. Isn’t that inadvisable in the extreme?

The benefits of having your own setup. I look around. The overhead light is out, burned out, because the one in the hall is on. 

Well let’s get you hosed off and fed. Then I’ll pull out my list.

List. On paper. I rub my eyes again. They alternate between watering too much and not enough. This probably isn’t the longest I’ve gone, but it feels like I was immersed for a long time. The chair massages muscles, mitigates some of the effects of immersion, but there’s the sleepwalking stage of returning to real world consciousness, the inner ear disturbance of becoming upright again. Headaches, sometimes.

Dolly laughs. I do everything I can on paper, Bitsy.

Why didn’t you just call Bristol?

Don't worry, this is in your wheelhouse. Her tone is off, I think. I can’t tell. Let’s get you to the shower.

Chapter Two

Dolly’s always been stronger than she looks. She supports me down the hall without breaking a sweat. I don’t know how she’s so strong, I could never carry her. She gets the shower running, locates shampoo, conditioner, pulls out towels and a bathrobe and smells them, shrugs. I remember my nose itched in VR, reach up to scratch it. My fingernails crackle with dry blood, but nothing hurts. Nosebleed maybe, mosquito maybe. It seems like you’ve done this before, Dolly. 

Maybe I have. You steady enough to get yourself hosed off?

Yeah. I don’t want Dolly to help me shower, that’s not really where we are in our relationship.

Alrighty. I’ll look for your kitchen.

My stomach does a slow flop and I yawn to stem the nausea. I’m sure that’ll sound good when I’m more awake. Or in, like, two weeks. There’s protocols. Vitamins. Meal replacements. 

It will. She pulls the door most of the way closed and walks off, whistling.

I drop my clothes on the floor, yoga pants and tank top, take a breath, and step into the spray. The water’s too harsh at first, a thousand needles, and I stand off to the side, just letting it warm my skin.

Eventually I just go numb, and I fumble the bottles of shampoo and stuff. I’d buzzed my hair before I went under, and it’s at a plush length that’s soft and nice to touch. Eventually, or maybe it’s quick, my fingertips go pruney, and I turn off the shower.

Going barefoot to the kitchen, every step feels new and tender. It doesn’t really smell like cooking, but it doesn’t smell like burning either. My nose just hasn’t really kicked back on yet; sometimes my senses don’t quite do what they’re supposed to once I’m back in the real world. Takes some time to boot back up.

The coffee pot is steaming, almost full, and Dolly’s head and shoulders in the refrigerator. You still like your coffee sugar no milk, right? ‘Cause your milk’s way off.

Right.  She sets it in front of me, and the mug between my palms is far too warm at first, and I hold it gingerly on the butcher block countertop, perched on a stool.

I don’t know why you do that to yourself, Dolly says, watching me from the corners of her eyes. She’s wearing her riot gear, I realize. 

I shrug; it won’t be a productive argument. I thought you were gonna cook or something.

Oh yeah. Gotta see if your eggs float first.

If the eggs...

If they float, they’re no good. If they don’t, they’re fine. Dolly gets out a glass bowl, slops some water in it, and slides the eggs from the carton in it. One of them floats, and she frowns and puts it back in the carton. The others don’t, and she cracks them each, one-handed with surprising adroitness, into a skillet heating on the stove.

Why are you in riot gear? Should I be in riot gear?

I told you. She glances at me, pokes the eggs. Did she? She could’ve. Time’s skippy and gappy after a long immersion. 

I can’t eat just regular food right away, I say. I can’t decide if the eggs smell amazing or not. I can’t decide if I’m amazed Dolly can cook or not.

I know but you don’t have any of that protein goo. Eggs are the best you’ve got here, buildin’ blocks of life and all that. You don’t even have the right vitamins in the cabinets, just some C. You should probably still take that. And Dolly loosens the lid and slides the plastic bottle across the butcher block. 

Didn’t leave to get more after the last time, I say. Which seems like it is and isn’t the right answer. I’m forgetting something and I have such a headache.

That was dumb, Dolly says, back turned. The vitamin C goes down with effort, one of the pills sticking sideways a second, flooding my mouth with the sour almost-vomit taste. I drink more coffee, washing it away with the sweetbitter. I always have trouble swallowing vitamin C.  

It was.

You get obsessed with that digital nonsense. Get too much in your head. Dolly slides a plate in front of me, then gets herself a cup of coffee. Sunny side up, the edges gone lacey from the heat. Golden tortillas, buttery. Think you can keep any of that down?

No. I don’t know yet.

"If you can’t,