Matrix Man Page 9

  "In order to make it, the computer has skimmed millions of images, finding those which match the script, discarding all the rest. Meanwhile subprocessors have tracked backgrounds, revised and colorized them as necessary, and sweetened the sound.

  "And speaking of sound, computer-generated music reinforces the video, all of it calculated to enhance the viewer's emotional response to the story line.

  "Holes have been left where the computer will insert other actors, some of which will be VMG-processed, some of which will act out their parts with stand-ins.

  "So, we review the rough cut, identify places where the computer couldn't find the necessary images, and order the system to generate it from scratch. Given five existing angles, the VMG can guess what a sixth or seventh would look like and fill it in.

  "Then after a few more runs to insert secondary actors, special effects, and subliminal advertising, we're all set. Here's a short example of what I'm talking about."

  Neely disappeared and was replaced by the actor. The reop smiled. During all of his long, illustrious career the actor had never appeared in a Shakespearean play, but that's how Neely cast him, as a somewhat elderly Hamlet. And it looked perfect. The motions, the lines, everything about it looked real. And that's what Neely meant when he spoke of "making reality."

  Hamlet faded away as Neely reappeared. "So, that's the first mode. The second mode works a little differently." Neely reached up to pat a piece of scaffolding. "That's where this rig comes into play. There are thirty-two different cameras mounted on it, each one representing a slightly different angle, each one feeding its image into the super-computer which I mentioned earlier."

  The picture seemed to shatter into a thousand fragments before reassembling itself into thirty-two frames, each one filled with a different shot of a female actor. She wore a skin-tight blue suit which left nothing to the imagination. As Corvan watched, she performed slow-motion calisthenics from thirty-two different angles.

  "By placing some in the center of this space and running them through a computer-designed series of movements, we can build a visual data base from scratch. Once we've accomplished that, it's a simple matter to record a variety of facial expressions, speech samples, and nonverbal sounds like coughing."

  The mosaic rippled and coalesced into a single picture. Neely smiled. "And once you have sufficient input, voila, you can generate any kind of video you want to. Imagine, you could hire an actor, put him or her through the VMG, and make endless movies! Actors might complain, but who knows, maybe the advent of VMG technology will create even more jobs by causing a resurgence of live theater. In spite of talk to the contrary, technology has almost always created more jobs over the long run, even when it has displaced workers at first. That isn't to say, however, that new technology is necessarily good."

  Neely's expression grew suddenly serious. "And in this case the potential for abuse is unusually high. That's why I'm making this recording. I hope to find other ways to tell my story, but this is my insurance policy, my last hope should the worst happen. The suits tell me that everything's all right, that I shouldn't worry, that I should spend my time refining the VMG."

  Neely looked into the camera earnestly. "But I can't do that unless I know that my work will be used for good. It's important that people understand this technology and learn how to deal with it. But so far all of my attempts to get the word out have been blocked. They say they'll let me put on public demonstrations, but when the time rolls around to do it, the suits find an excuse to cancel."

  The robo cam moved in for an extreme close-up. Neely's eyes looked huge. "The fact is that they're stalling. Why? Is it economic? The VMG could put some of the weaker movie studios out of business. Or is it something worse? What if someone used the VMG to make news that never really happened? What if they already have? I no longer control the VMG, so any-thing's possible. I'd destroy the software, but it's too late. The suits have copies by now, and even if they don't, all the necessary components are already out there. If I hadn't put a VMG together, someone else would have, and will, should I disappear from the scene."

  The video engineer stared out at Corvan as if trying to see him through the veil of time and space. "The problem is that mankind has crossed another threshold, discovered another tool, and put himself into jeopardy once again. We are entering a time when nothing can be taken for granted, when reality is up for grabs, when each one of us will be forced to think for ourselves."

  The robo cam moved back and up, allowing pieces of scaffolding to pass through the shot. As it did so Neely became smaller and smaller. He followed the camera with his eyes, wistfully now, as if he hated to see it go. "The truth is that we’ve entered a new age, the age of Matrix Man, and unless we're careful, it could be the darkest age of all."

  By now the camera had risen as far as it could go. Neely looked very, very small as he turned and walked out of the shot. The interface faded to black a few seconds later.

  Both were silent for a moment as they pulled their wires and leaned back in their chairs. Corvan was the first to speak. "Frank was quite a guy."

  Kim nodded. "That's for sure. And a modest one too. Although the technological piece parts exist to make a VMG, he's the first one to do it."

  "Yeah," Corvan said thoughtfully, "and that's why they killed him. I'd be willing to bet you that shortly after he made this recording Frank joined the Exodus Underground. And that's what the Captain Video broadcasts were all about: he was trying to warn people to be critical of what they heard and saw, anything could be faked."

  "Which raises the obvious question," Kim responded. ''Who's behind all of this?''

  Corvan raised his right eyebrow and the eye cam whirred softly as it zoomed in on her face. "Well, since the people who killed him worked for the WPO, and WPO works for the government, it's logical to think they followed government orders."

  "Is it?" Kim asked. "How do we know it isn't the other way around?"

  Both were silent for a moment before Corvan spoke. "It's possible, I guess. But it seems extremely unlikely. While Hawkins did agree to let U.S. troops participate in the WPO peace-keeping forces, he dragged his feet all the way and has continually questioned their motives. As long as he's around, the government will be in control."

  "That's just fine," Kim answered. "But it doesn't make sense. Why would Hawkins allowed the WPO to commit murder?"

  Corvan frowned. "You're right. It doesn't make sense. It seems we have some work to do. But where should we start?"

  Kim noticed his use of the word "we," but made no effort to object. Instead she picked up a folder and handed it to Corvan. "I thought you might say something like that. Take a look at these."

  Corvan opened the folder and found two full-color video facsimiles. The first was a blow-up of a vidcam, one of the thirty-two mounted on the VMG's scaffolding, and Corvan saw that a logo had been placed on its side. It read "E-FEX-1."

  "It's the name of a Bay Area special-effects house," Kim said by way of explanation. "I found it listed in the American Producer's Handbook."

  "You'd make a good reop," Corvan said admiringly, "or maybe a cop."

  "God forbid," Kim said fervently as she pulled out a black market fag and lit up. "I'm not the type."

  The second facsimile was a blow-up of a woman. The same woman Corvan had last seen doing calisthenics for the video matrix generator. Her name and a San Francisco address had been scrawled across the bottom of the page: Bethany Bryn. A stage name if he'd ever heard one. It sounded vaguely familiar, like he'd seen it on some credits somewhere and accidentally memorized it.

  Corvan looked up at Kim. "Don't tell me, let me guess. The Screen Actors Guild."

  "Bingo," Kim replied, jabbing the fag in his direction. "It makes sense when you think about it. Neely needed some talent for his equipment trials and used a local. Simple as that."

  "Yeah," Corvan said thoughtfully. "As simple as that. Well, I suggest we drop in on Ms. Bryn and ask her a few questions. I can
sleep on the train. When we get to San Francisco we'll stay at my apartment." Corvan held up a hand as if anticipating an objection. "Don't worry, I have a guest room."

  A part of Kim's mind did start to object. It pointed out that she couldn't earn any overtime running around with Corvan, that his guest room would offer scant protection, but she pushed it away. She had two days coming and she'd use them for once. To hell with the loans, to hell with Mel Ryback, and to hell with sleeping on the floor. In fact, if it came to that, to hell with sleeping alone. Kim stubbed out the fag, killed the power to her console, and packed a small bag.

  If Corvan thought it strange that she kept spare clothes in the editing suite, he gave no sign of it. A few minutes later she picked up her purse and turned his way. "I'm ready, your reportership. Lead the way."

  8

  Dietrich swore softly as Kim closed the door. The sound of the latch sliding home came through with amazing clarity. With a flick of a switch Mel Ryback killed the intercom and turned to tap some instructions into a keyboard.

  All of the editing suites were hooked together so they could share equipment when necessary, and since the chief engineer's office was equipped to monitor that activity, Dietrich had been able to watch Neely's tape from there.

  Though unable to join them in the interface, Dietrich had witnessed the whole session via a regular holo set, and the situation was worse than he'd imagined. Much worse. The video matrix generator was absolutely amazing. No wonder he'd been ordered to kill Neely! With the VMG at their disposal, Subido and Numalo could control the news.

  Dietrich pulled his feet off the console and allowed Ryback's guest chair to tilt forward with a solid thump. The truth was like a cancer, spreading from person to person, threatening to destroy the entire organism. What had once been a simple exercise in preventive medicine was now a case for major surgery.

  Not only that, but now his ass was on the line and in a big way. Subido's patience wouldn't last forever, and there was no way to tell if Numalo would protect him or give him up rather than offend her. They'd been lovers once, Dietrich knew that, but couldn't tell if that relationship was still in force.

  No, he couldn't rely on any help from Numalo. He'd have to act and act fast.

  For a moment he considered going after Corvan and Kio right then, killing them on the roof or wherever he found them. It would be effective but very, very messy. Chances were there'd be witnesses, more than he could silence, and the whole thing might get out of hand. Besides, Corvan was no pushover; the underwater fight had proved that. By now the reop might even be armed. No, it would be better to remove the infected tissue first, and then go after the disease itself.

  Dietrich turned to find Mel Ryback feeding his greenfish. The chief engineer seemed oblivious to the implications of what he'd seen, but the dark circles of sweat underneath each arm said otherwise, as did the tremor in his hands.

  The fact that Ryback stood only inches away from the door wasn't lost on Dietrich either. The German smiled sadly and shook his head. The poor schmuck knew he was in trouble, knew he should get out, and knew that the ominous-looking Nicolai Slovo was just outside. Some people just have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Reaching inside his jacket, Dietrich pulled the .22 Magnum automatic. It came with a built-in silencer and reactive grips which molded themselves into the shape of the user's hand. Even though a .22 fires a lightweight slug, the Magnum version leaves the barrel at a higher rate of speed than a .38, and when the target's only a few feet away it makes quite a mess.

  In this case some of the slugs went right through Ryback, shattered the fishtank, and spilled gallons of water all over the floor. Some of it washed over the chief engineer's body, grew red with his blood, and formed a pool around him.

  Greenfish flapped here and there, unable to breathe, dying a slow death as their once secure world disappeared around them.

  The door slammed open as Slovo came in fast and low, his handgun searching for a target. The bodyguard took it all in, lowered his gun, and nodded in Dietrich's direction. Stepping outside, Slovo closed the door behind him. If someone came by, the bodyguard would turn them away.

  Dietrich ejected the empty magazine, slapped a new one into the butt of his pistol, and returned it to his shoulder holster. Time to make some com calls.

  The first went to Christian Fawley. A description of the problem, a short discussion of the alternatives, and help was on the way. With some assistance from the local police and FBI, a clean-up crew would take care of the office, a Medevac helicopter would remove Ryback's body, and the fire department would handle the unfortunate blaze which was about to engulf Kim Kio's editing suite.

  After that it was a simple matter to call a certain number in San Francisco and set things in motion there. Things would be ready by the time he arrived.

  Dietrich wrinkled his nose. Like many corpses Ryback's was incontinent. "Well," Dietrich thought to himself as he got up and headed for the door, "it's a shitty job, but someone's got to do it."

  9

  Seattle's train station looked like a huge postmodernist cathedral fallen on hard times. Sunlight filtered through the dirty skylights and dust-laden air to touch the throng below. Islands of scraggly looking vegetation stood here and there, piled high with garbage, but still serving to channel foot traffic in and out. Huge electronic billboards, one of which carried a News Network 56 promo, covered the walls. Seedy restaurants and cheap shops lined both sides of the grand concourse, all of them garishly lit, all of them doing fairly well.

  Due to the incredible volume of people that flowed through the terminal, even the most incompetent businessperson could make a living. As for the fag dealers and pickpockets, well, many of them were rich.

  Having purchased two first-class tickets from an auto teller, and having only one bag apiece, Corvan and Kim headed straight for their train.

  Neither noticed the middle-aged lady with two overstuffed shopping bags who shuffled along behind them, or the tall, skinny man who strolled along some twenty feet ahead, apparently absorbed in the 2:00 p.m. printout of USA Today. But that wasn't too surprising, since both the woman and man were extremely good at what they did and were in constant communication.

  However, the man made a mistake—a small thing really but a mistake nonetheless. The man dropped a handful of stickies.

  Stickies are tiny transmitters which look like little flecks of black paint and will stick to almost anything, including shoes. Once stuck, stickies will signal their location for two hours, or until they're destroyed, whichever comes first.

  Corvan knew, because like all investigative reporters he'd used stickies to follow people, and been tailed himself. Stickies can be quite useful in crowds, but are notoriously unreliable and hard to place. It was this last factor which had given the man away. It isn't easy to scatter stickies and look like you're reading the paper at the same time.

  Almost without thinking, the reop zoomed in to see what the man was doing, recognized the little black specks for what they were, and took evasive action. Grabbing Kim's arm, Corvan guided her around the scattering of stickies toward a large vending machine.

  Sliding his credit card into the machine's slot, Corvan wondered if the stickies had been intended for them or for someone else. There was no way to know. And should he tell Kim or not? What if he told her and she decided to stay in Seattle? It shouldn't matter, but it did. The truth was that she was special—how special he didn't know, but special enough that he didn't want to lose her. But he couldn't tell her that. What if she laughed in his face?

  Corvan noticed her questioning look and mustered a grin. He held up his candy bar. "Just hungry, that's all," he said, and led her out into the crowd.

  Corvan looked around, failed to see the skinny man, and decided that he'd be more careful. Chances were, the stickies were intended for someone else, and rather than worry her unnecessarily, he'd watch for signs of unusual activity and tell Kim if and when they
occurred.

  Though not a train buff, Corvan had done a feature story about them once and learned a lot in the process. He'd learned how the railroads had tied the country together, how they'd given birth to cities, how they'd moved people, resources, and finished goods during the Industrial Revolution, how they'd helped win two world wars, and finally, how they'd almost died, victims of the internal-combustion engine.

  The ironic part was that during the last twenty years or so they'd come back with a vengeance, almost burying the same technology which had previously put them out of business, thriving on the same conditions which systematically took automobiles off the streets.

  As the population steadily increased and oil reserves steadily decreased, petroleum products had become extremely expensive. That, plus pollution, plus the greenhouse effect, had led to laws limiting the use of vehicles with internal-combustion engines.

  Meanwhile, improvements in solar-cell technology, combined with the now famous breakthroughs on superconductivity, had led to the use of electric cars for local transportation and trains for almost everything else.

  Yes, there were still plenty of planes in the sky, including the new aerospace liners which flew at four thousand miles an hour and spent more time above the atmosphere than in it. But these were playthings of the rich and powerful, not transportation for the masses.

  "But," Corvan thought cynically, "we do fairly well. At least in first-class we do."

  And it was true. The train which had pulled up along Platform 6 was three miles long, looked like an elongated silver bullet, and floated just above shiny rails on magnetic repulsors. For those traveling first-class it was fast, comfortable, and safe.

  A woman with two shopping bags went aboard, followed by an elderly couple, who handed their tickets to the conductor and headed down toward the tourist section.

  They reminded Kim of her parents. Especially the box lunches tucked under their arms, a necessity for people traveling tourist class, or anyone else who didn't want to pay an exorbitant price for their food.