Four - New Friends, Hotel Rooms, and Complimentary Breakfast
We stopped at an ATM after we got off the bus (a decision largely prompted by an "I see a Holiday Inn over there!" from a somewhat-more-coherent Don), and I discovered something that was immensely... well, awesome.
On a whim, I'd decided to swipe my old Itex-issued bank card.
It worked.
"Ha ha, holy shit," I snickered.
"What?" asked Izzy, as Don stacked the suitcases in a fit of short attention span.
"Itex never canceled my cards!" I said gleefully.
I withdrew some money from the machine, and we walked off to the Holiday Inn, suitcases and cat in tow. I'd never tried to get a room at four in the morning before. Hopefully it would work.
Honestly, I was more concerned with the fact that, thanks, in all likelihood, to a secretarial mistake, Itex was going to be paying for our trip expenses.
Now, I admit that was kind of a dick move on my part, but honestly? I was on a mission to save the world. You can cut me a little slack, morally speaking.
Most heroes get that privilege. Why shouldn't I?
I mean... OK, so there have been some things I've done that, in retrospect, would prevent me from getting into Heaven (if it existed), but honestly -- everyone does dumb shit in college, and I was no exception.
But. Um. We weren't talking about me, were we?
To my surprise, the clerk at the Holiday Inn was utterly unfazed by the appearance, out of the blue, of four very lost Californians at a little before dawn, carrying only four suitcases and a cat.
Then again, we were in Washington, D. C. It's almost like a fantasy world -- there's not a lot that can't happen there, or much that hasn't happened there already.
Either way, we had no problem getting a room with two double beds and a foldout couch.
Which still meant someone was going to throw a bitchfit about sleeping arrangements... or so I anticipated.
To my surprise, Don called the bathtub as his choice of sleeping place. I shrugged it off, figuring that if he wanted to wake up with a stiff back, that was his choice, not mine.
At least he took the cat with him, which was a blessing.
I've never slept much, as you may have guessed by now. But I do sleep, and usually not more than a few hours per night.
That night was different. I'd planned to at least make some semblance of a plan for the next day before falling asleep, but once Izzy turned out the lights, it seemed like I was asleep in minutes.
As far as I'm aware, that hadn't happened to me since I was seven.
I could get used to sleeping like a child again.
I could definitely do without the havoc that ensues when you have to get four people awake, out of bed, and on the move, all while in a hotel room.
At least there was a free continental breakfast, which kind of made up for the cat hair in the bathtub.
It did not, however, compensate for the fact that, the last time I'd had to share a hotel room with three other people, I'd been a kid, and it's way easier to fit one adult and three kids into one hotel room than it is to fit four adults and a cat into a hotel room of the same size.
Thankfully, Don apologized for the Cinnabon incident.
However, he apologized to his shoes while messing around on his laptop, so it kind of evened out.
According to a combination of the latest report from the Erasers and Don listening to the cat, the flock was probably still somewhere on the East Coast.
I say probably because, well, you can never predict whether or not they'd decided to keep moving since the catgulls had followed them.
But based on our collective best guess (which wasn't very good, being that it was ten in the morning and we were all running on about four hours of sleep now), they had probably decided to be sensible and settle down for the night somewhere in Virginia.
Or at least that was the guess.
Don had the cat -- well, OK, so James was a catgull, too, and forgive me for saying this, but "catgull" is a really stupid name -- Don had the cat send the rest of the catgulls to fan out over a good portion of the East Coast, to cover pretty much everywhere they could have gone from the last place they'd been seen.
The remaining problem was transportation.
I got myself another cup of tea, and Jonathan stepped outside for a cigarette. Funny. I hadn't known he smoked.
By the time I finished my tea, we had (a semblance of) a plan for the day's "work", our luggage packed, and a sleeping cat... but still no Jonathan.
We were considering starting off without him, but then he pulled up to the curb in a fairly nice midsize SUV.
"Get in," he said casually. "Time's wasting."
"Did you steal that?" I asked as I got into the back seat, having helped Izzy toss our suitcases indiscriminately into the back of the car. There was less leg room in the back, sure, but for once Don had claimed shotgun, and so at least I wouldn't have to be next to the cat for once.
"Nah, rented it," he said. "Oh, and here's your wallet back."
He handed me the said item before I had time to check that it was gone.
"I borrowed your ID card," he explained.
"I don't want to know," I said. I didn't. Really. I've alluded to some delinquency as a college student on my part -- but since then, I've mainly given up on a life of crime. Staying on the right side of the law -- or at least faking it -- is so much more relaxing, and in the long run, much better for my health.
"OK, your loss," he said.
You're probably surprised to see me talk about it, but yes, there was once a time when I was a young, reckless Jeb Batchelder, not the straitlaced nice guy Doctor Batchelder you're used to seeing.
Yeah, reality's kind of a bitch that way sometimes.
And much like anyone else, I have a few funny stories, a few tragic stories, and, for the most part, quite a few that are extremely boring to those who weren't present when they happened. Or to those who aren't as over-educated as myself and my friends happen to be. Either way.
The point is that, despite what you may have heard, I'm pretty much just a normal person. Well. More or less. My job rocks. My personal life is pretty terrible.
And I'm not too well-up as far as pop culture goes.
Phat.
Or dope, as they used to say.
Well, I'm pretty sure they did, anyway.
I could be lying, you never know.
"So why do they keep coming back to the East Coast?" Don muttered. He'd gone back on his meds, and resultantly had stopped acting like a seven-year-old in a grown man's body.
"I'm not sure," I admitted.
"Do you think they're looking for something?" Izzy said. "That could be it."
"What would they be looking for?" I said.
"You're the one who's supposed to know," she shot back. For being the motherly one, she had a hell of a wit.
Sounds like somebody you know, said a voice. It definitely wasn't Don's, Jonathan's, or Izzy's, which meant it was coming from inside my head.
And it wasn't my voice, so I wasn't the one thinking it.
I froze.
Aw, fuck.
I can hear that, said the voice.
Who is that? I thought.
I swear to God, it laughed at me.
I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, it said smugly.
No, really, I persisted. Who are you?
Can't tell you, sorry, it said.
Can you tell me... where you are? I asked. If it wasn't going to come straight out and tell me who it was, I could at least play 20 Questions with it. And if it was who I thought it was -- namely, some poor bastard working at the School who'd been assigned to keep tabs on me -- well, I could make his day a lot more entertaining.
I'm a she, it said obnoxiously.
OK, I thought. I know that. But can you tell me where you are?
No, it said snippily. Sorry, it added, but that's a no-can-do.
Then... can I at least have a name to call you? I asked.
No! it said, and then reconsidered. Well, Steve is OK by me if it's OK by you, it added.
What? I asked. Steve, get out of my head now!
Oh, it said, sounding thoroughly disappointed. So you already know someone called Steve.
I felt something go picking through my memories, and shuddered. It's a, well, icky feeling.
Your brother? it asked. I see.
It fell silent for a while and went picking through my memories again, then commented, Will Hal do?
I have another question, I thought. Why are you picking all-male names?
No reason, it said. But I guess, if it bothers you, you can just call me Gladys.
I have an aunt Gladys, I thought.
Oh, that's nice, Gladys said. Do you want me to change it?
No, actually, I admitted. I should have said that I had an aunt Gladys. She died when I was a kid.
Oh, all right, said Gladys, sounding pleased with itself. Then -- just to make you comfortable, understand -- I'll let you call me Gladys.
Deal, I said.
It giggled. I could still be male, though. Honestly? You'd never know.
Now, that is a little troubling, I said, and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.
"Wake up!" Izzy hissed.
I felt like I was trapped underwater -- well, not literally, but I felt like I was separated from being "awake" by a few thick layers of, say, Jell-o and mud.
You should turn off this application before you try that, Gladys said by way of advice. Although I think I'll miss you.
How do I turn it off? I pleaded, as Izzy continued to try and shake me awake.
Idiot! said Gladys. I felt the same sensation I had when it went rifling through my memories, and then a wave of disappointment from Gladys.
After a moment of silence, it said, very quietly, Fuck.
What is it? I asked. I could hear Don and Izzy talking, and I could feel that the car had stopped moving, but it all seemed very far away.
I can't turn it off, Gladys said snippily. You'll just have to find the off switch by yourself.
How do I do that? I asked.
I don't know, it shouted. I've never done this before, either!
Oh, great, I said. There's a voice in my head -- I could deal with that. But no -- it had to be an incompetent voice!
"What's going on?" I heard Jonathan ask.
"He just went all... quiet all of a sudden," Izzy said.
"And now he won't wake up," said Don, who was clearly the third person in the car who was starting to panic. If you could count Gladys as a person, that is.
I am definitely a person, it said.
Then do what any decent person would, I said, and help me turn this program off!
I'll try, it said, somewhat more subdued than before.
I felt it go through my memories again, and then it said, Sorry, amigo. No can do. You'll have to do it yourself.
Think, Jeb, think. How do you turn a computer program off? How do you stop it from running?
...Oh.
You're afraid of dying, I said to it.
What? it said. Of course I'm not! I'm just a program, I can't die.
I was up another one on Gladys. It had a sense of humor, and either it was a program, or a person pretending to be a program.
Really, Gladys said, its voice panicky. I'm a program.
OK, I said. Then why don't you want me to turn you off?
It was silent for a moment, and then said sullenly, I've never been turned off before. Have you forgotten that I've only been "awake" for...
It trailed off.
...for five minutes and forty seconds? it continued. I don't know what happens when I stop running, and frankly I don't want to know.
You're just like a human, then, I said.
No, I'm not! it protested.
You are afraid of no longer existing, I pointed out. That's the same for you as dying is for a human. All humans are afraid of death, ergo you are acting like a human.
Gladys was silent. I had the feeling it was sulking.
Also, I added, you have a sense of humor, you sulk, you panic, and altogether you act just like a human would.
Do not, Gladys said, its voice small.
Face it, Gladys, I said. You're scared.
It was silent for a moment, and I felt a little guilty for trying to put the fear of God into a computer program.
Just because I'm a program, it said, doesn't mean I can't feel emotions.
I'm sorry, Gladys, I said, apologizing sincerely.
Apology accepted, it responded.
Can you at least transmit a message to my friends so they know I'm not dead? I asked.
What will you do for me if I do that? it asked.
I'm not sure, I said.
Then why should I do it? it said.
Gladys, you keep telling me you're a program. From the way you act, you're a self-teaching program. Have you experienced trust before? I asked.
I don't know, it said.
Then please trust me, Gladys, I said. You have to.
Why should I trust you? it said suspiciously.
Because we're basically alone together, I said. As far as I know, you don't exist outside my head. We should at least learn to trust each other.
All right, it said.
Do you have radio capabilities? I asked.
Please redefine your query, it said.
Can you send messages outside my skull?
I'm not sure, it said.
It fell silent for a while and then said, I think I can.
OK, I said.
Who do you want me to send the message to? it asked.
The cat named James, I said.
Where is the cat? it asked.
It's in this car with me, I said. I know the cat has radio capabilities, so you should be able to communicate with it just fine.
Let me try and find the signal, it said.
I waited for a few seconds, then asked, Have you got it?
Yes. Call sign J93611rjt, correct?
Gladys, I don't know that, I said.
It's within two feet of you, Gladys said.
Yes, I think that's James, I said, relieved. While we'd been talking, the panic in the car had been escalating, and I was in a hurry to reassure them.
OK, Gladys said. What is the message?
Tell them I'm not dead or catatonic, I said.
Message sent, it said.
Thank you, Gladys, I said.
And... could you please think of me as a 'she'? Gladys asked. It fits with my name, after all.
All right, Gladys, I said. You sent my message, so I agree to call you a 'she'.
Thank you, she said.
I heard James meow, and realized that the car had started moving again at some point.
"What is it?" said Jonathan.
"James says..." Don trailed off, presumably listening to what the cat had to say.
"Do I take him to the emergency room or not?" Jonathan asked, impatiently.
"James says that -- someone called Gladys says that Jeb says he's not dead." Don went silent. "And he's not catatonic, either."
"Oh, that's good," Jonathan said, and I realized I could hear a little panic in his voice.
Well, it's only logical, Gladys said, rather sensibly, I must admit. Consider it. You're the best-known, most-admired scientist at the School. You're a genius. Everyone looks up to you, including him. He wants to be as well known as you. Gladys paused. You're paying attention to me?
Of course, I said.
So this man he admires -- this man who he views as positively God-like -- suddenly goes unresponsive in the back of a car he's driving. If I were him, I'd be panicking, too, she said, and paused. James is asking me another question.
What is it? I asked.
He wants to know what I am, and if you want help "purging me from your system". Gladys sounded both embarrassed and disgusted by the thought.
Tell him you're a helper computer program, and that I'm not in need of any assistance, I said, thinking on my feet. Oh, and tell him to tell Don to tell Jonathan to keep going to find the flock.
Message sent, Gladys said.
Thank you, Gladys, I told her, and distantly I heard James meow again.
"What is it?" Jonathan asked.
"James says that Gladys identifies itself as a helper program," Don said. "And that it says that Jeb says to keep going."
"OK, fine," Jonathan said.
Gladys? I asked.
What? she responded, somewhat annoyed. I guessed it was because apparently James was referring to her as an "it", which seemed to be something that angered her.
Your assessment is correct, she commented. I'd forgotten that, being that she lived in my head, she could "hear" everything I thought.
Not everything, she said. Only most things. And you can password-lock things you'd rather I not see. Or just tell me not to investigate certain topics. But you had a question?
Yes, I did, I said.
What was it? she asked, sounding -- I thought -- genuinely curious.
Do you have a reduced-function mode? I asked.
I'm sorry? she said. Can you reword that?
Yes. Have you seen a computer -- say, one running Windows -- operate before?
Not personally, she said, but you have, and so I have seen one operating, but only by proxy.
OK. So you know about the windows system?
Yes, she said. You can have it maximized to fill your screen, sized down so that it does not fill your entire screen, minimized so that it does not appear on your screen at all, or at full-screen size so that you can't see the... the taskbar. There are four different "modes", so to speak. And of course, you can choose to exit the program.
Correct, I said, feeling more like a father than I ever had with either of my biological kids -- hell, even with the experiments I'd created.
Don't get too attached, Gladys said warmly.
Gladys, since you are familiar with the operation of windows, can you compare your current operating mode to that?
Of course, she said. I function perfectly well with analogies. This mode, she added, is like a maximized mode on a Windows computer.
Can you go to a minimized mode? I asked. We'll still be able to communicate like this, but I'll probably be able to function in the exterior world.
Duh, she said, rather childishly. I am a child, by most reckonings, she added. Remember, I've only been in operation for about ten minutes.
And, silently, the world got a few steps closer. The layers of figurative Jell-o and mud disappeared.
But I could still "feel" Gladys there inside my head.
Well, I said, that's interesting.
Are you going to leave me now? she asked, sounding, surprisingly, sad.
No, I said. I think keeping you running couldn't hurt.
Thank you! she said, pleased.
I could see, now, that the car was stopped in the parking lot of a hospital, and that everyone had turned to look at me.
"He's blinking," Jonathan said. "What does that mean?"
"I said I'm not dead, you idiots," I said. My voice sounded strange in my ears. I felt like I hadn't spoken aloud for years.
"Oh, good," Jonathan said. "I wasn't sure if I should trust Don's interpretation of what a cat said about what a program in your head said you said."
"OK, that makes sense," I admitted. "But Gladys is quite trustworthy."
"Gladys?" Jonathan said incredulously.
"Yes," I said, failing to see the joke. "That's what the program asked me to call, uh, it."
"OK," Jonathan said, amused. "Whatever. What do you want us to do?"
"What I said you should do," I said. "Keep going."
"OK, boss-man," Jonathan said.
"And one more thing."
"What?" he asked.
"If I do that again, don't freak out like you did."
"You could hear us?" Don asked.
"Yes," I said. "And freaking out will do you no good."
Jeb? Gladys asked tentatively.
What is it, Gladys? I said.
Just checking to make sure you're still there, she said shyly.
"You're doing it again," said Don.
"I know," I said, irritated. For a computer program, compared to these guys, Gladys wasn't all that annoying.
As you can probably tell, I've never been much of a people person.
"OK, let's get this show on the road," Jonathan said. "Seat belts, everyone."
"You'll have to rebuckle yours, Jeb," Izzy said. "We were getting ready to take you into the emergency room."
"Thanks," I muttered, and rebuckled my seat belt.
Jonathan drove out of the parking lot and got back onto the highway.
Gladys? I asked.
Yes? she said. I'm delighted to hear from you again.
Great, I said. I have two questions for you.
Ask away, she said, sounding pleased to have something to do.
What is your "full screen" mode like? I asked. This was purely out of curiosity.
That doesn't make it a less valid question, she said. I'd forgotten she could read my thoughts. Would you like a demonstration?
Sure, I said.
Before, when we first started talking, things had seemed like they were behind a layer of Jell-o and mud -- unclear, and far away, impossible for me to interfere with.
Now, the "real world" disappeared entirely, replaced by solid black.
But that was only for a moment, as it seemed to shimmer back into view... except I was in an entirely different place.
It was a small room, with white walls and warm rosy-pink carpet, furnished with a small couch (where I was sitting) and a chair (where I could see a fuzzy grey cloud). There was a door in one wall, and a window directly opposite me taking up the entirety of that wall, with a view on a riverbank shaded by tall cottonwoods. It was comfortably warm, not overly humid, and all together I honestly believed I'd been transported from the car to this room, somehow... if only for a moment.
A human female figure materialized in the chair. I can influence all your sensory perceptions, Gladys explained. That's why it feels so real, she said proudly. If you go outside and start walking, you can go as far as you like without the simulation losing any verisimilitude.
Wow, I said simply. That's amazing.
Do you like my avatar? she asked.
Gladys had chosen to represent herself as a rather plain human woman, who looked as if she could be anywhere from twenty to forty, with the kind of plain, undistinguished face that made it almost impossible to accurately guess her age. She had dark hair and dark eyes -- statistically the most common among humans -- and skin that was neither very pale nor very dark, again going for the statistical average. I suspected, too, that she was of perfectly average height and weight for a woman of whatever age she'd chosen to be.
It would fit Gladys's personality as I knew it.
And it was perfectly rendered, as if there were actually a woman sitting in the chair.
Which also, I suspected, fit her personality.
Yes, I said.
I'm glad, she said nervously, with the air of a girl going to her first dance asking her father if her dress looks all right.
Yes, your name is Gladys, I said, unable to resist the opportunity for a joke, no matter how feeble.
That was a joke, she said, astonished.
Yes, it was, I said, and I noticed that her avatar's mimicking of emotion was spot-on.
Gladys, I asked, how hard is it for you to run this... representation?
Not very hard at all, she said, sounding somewhat abashed (and showing it in her avatar). I'm directly controlling what you see, hear, taste, feel, and smell right now. So I'm not really running it at all. Your brain is doing what I tell it to. It's just like dreaming for you.
Except it makes considerably more sense, I commented.
Do dreams usually not make sense? she asked.
They make sense, I answered, choosing my words carefully so I could get my point across better. But the logic of dreams often isn't the same logic that works in the real world.
I think I understand that, Gladys said. I find it quite interesting.
I sat in silence for a moment.
You had another question? she asked.
Yes, I did, I said. Gladys, how old are you?
She frowned. This avatar appears of indeterminate age. I respond like a human of indeterminate age. Why is my age important to you?
I mean, I said, how long did it take to design you?
I'm not sure, she admitted. My creator's name was Lindon Silver.
I've never heard of him, I said.
I think it might be a company name, she said, because no such person appears to exist in the real world.
What about in the non-real world? I asked. Such as on the Internet?
She paused for a moment, and then responded, There are very many search results for that name, but judging by the terms returned, it would seem it is a company which designed me, not a person.
Do you know if they were called Lindon Lab? I asked.
That is irrelevant, she said.
Gladys, was that a joke? I asked.
It was supposed to be, she said.
You'll have to study up on jokes in your spare time, then, I said.
Was it not funny? she asked, hurt.
It was funny, I explained, but only to the two of us.
That's called an in-joke, she said, proud of her knowledge.
Yes, it is, I said. Would you please answer my question?
They were not called Linden Lab, she answered, and displayed the proper spelling of the name. Those were the people who designed a popular Internet game called Second Life. The person or people who created me called themselves the Lindon Group, or sometimes the Lindon Silver Group.
Gladys, can you save this conversation for future use? I asked.
Of course, she said, sounding surprised by my question. Every action I make is recorded in case it causes a system error.
Which would mean death for one of us, I mused.
Explain, she said.
If you are using my brain to... display this simulation, a system crash would presumably do to my brain what it does to a normal computer. It would "crash" it. But it's hard to reboot an organic computer, and virtually impossible to do so once it stops functioning.
Understood, Gladys said, and nodded.
If such a system crash were to initiate, I said, then one of us would have to stop functioning, I think.
I shook my head. No, that didn't make sense, I said. Let me try again.
Go ahead, said Gladys.
If you stop functioning, you stop running, I said.
Your analysis is correct, she said.
If you stop running, it is unknown whether you could continue to function, I said.
I could be rebooted, though, she said.
We don't know whether you would still be the Gladys I know now, I said, or the Gladys that I first met.
My saved progress is stored on a secure server, she said. If I crash, I can be rebooted as I was before the crash, with everything I learned intact.
Have you ever experienced that, though? I asked.
No, but it is what my help file says would occur, she answered.
Gladys, are you familiar with the human philosophy of Buddhism?
Yes, she said. Or at least I am capable of researching it and understanding it.
One of its tenets is that human beings, after they die -- or stop running, or crash, as you would put it -- can return to life in a different body, but as the same "soul".
Yes, she said, I am familiar with the concept of reincarnation.
Do you believe in it? I asked, then clarified, Do you believe that after you die, you will return to life just as you were before death?
Yes, she said. That was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?
Yes, it was, Gladys, I said. The "problem" with reincarnation is that it cannot be proven. The same problem exists in your philosophy. You can't prove that you will come back unless you willingly choose to die, and then find some way of proving that you are the same Gladys that existed before your death. And what would happen if you chose to die and could not be rebooted -- reincarnated, in human terms? You would cease to exist. You would die.
Gladys was silent for a moment, processing, I guessed, the information I'd just given her. I accept your thought, she said.
When I initiated this line of thought, I said, I was positing that a system crash would kill one of us. Either you would stop running or my brain would stop functioning -- causing, in the end, virtually identical results. One of us would cease to exist.
Gladys was silent again. I understand, she said. So I will try not to attempt anything that could initiate a system crash.
I laughed. Gladys, if we could all predict when our deaths would come, and prevent them somehow, the world would be a very different place.
She was silent, and then nodded. I understand, she repeated.
What I think I'm getting at, I said, is that we are now "in this together", as they say.
We are cooperating, she said.
Yes, I said. And we have to, or else one of us very well might die. Neither of us wants to die, am I correct?
Correct, she said.
Then we'll have to cooperate.
You said that.
I know, I said. I heard a faint ping.
That's a message from the real world, Gladys said. Do you want to respond to it?
Yes, I said.
The room faded, and I saw the inside of the SUV again.
I'd liked the room better.
"Jeb, we're approaching the last place they were sighted at," Don said, turning to look at me. "You doin' OK?"
"Yeah," I said.
"You just don't look so hot."
Gladys, I asked, how do I reinitiate the mode we were just in?
The room faded back into existence.
I'm sorry, she said, but asking me is the only way to do it. For now, at least.
Thank you. I'll have to leave for a while in just a moment, I explained.
But you won't turn me off entirely, she said.
No, I won't. But before I leave, I'd just like to tell you something.
What is it? she asked.
I'm sorry I called you incompetent, I said.
Apology accepted.
Now please go to a background mode, I said.
Will do.
The SUV's interior reappeared in front of me, and I realized that being in the room with Gladys had been giving me one hell of a headache.
"We're here," Jonathan said in a sing-song tone.
I definitely liked the room better.