souls or not, this was hell, if not of God’s creation, then Man’s, and we were in it.
15
I had left the Heaven’s Gate menu up and running, so when I put the dreadcap and gloves back on, there I was standing before it, rose-colored clouds hiding whatever beasties lurked within.
“Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door.”
“Who’s there?”
“Marley Philippe.”
“Identity verified. Proceed to access request.”
“Request access to the Vortex.”
“No such item on this menu,” said the words inside Heaven’s Gate.
Not exactly surprising. If the Vortex was some kind of interface program written by the system entities themselves, whatever that meant, and I couldn’t access it from this environment, I had to go up top.
All
the way up.
I exited the Heaven’s Gate menu environment and went back up to the Main Menu, the usual circle of icons accessing the main environmental subdivisions. According to all the system guides and users’ manuals, this was the top Board level, but there
had
to be an operating system level above it, and in theory, at least, a way to access it in the event of a system malfunction. Some kind of simple override, like …
I put my hands at my sides, carefully avoiding pointing at any of the area icons, and began snapping my fingers in random sequences. Nothing happened for a minute or two, and then—
Bink!
I was out of the Main Menu environment. I was out of everything, or so it seemed. There was nothing up here but nothing, a perfect, and I do mean perfect, zero. No visuals, no audibles, a blackness like that of a deep cave with the lights out.
“Hey, Vortex, if you’re in here, I’m calling you,” I said. “You and me, we got a few bones to pick, my man.”
Nothing. Zip. Nada.
“Come on out, I’m calling on you, you nonexistent son of a bitch!”
Blackness. Silence.
“Come on out,” I shouted, “or I’ll reboot the whole fucking system and wipe your nonexistent ass!”
Hmmm….
A hollow threat, maybe, but who knew, maybe not even the Vortex, maybe there
was
a reboot command accessible on this level. I started snapping the fingers of both my hands inside the gloves randomly, hoping to hit something, or maybe just hoping to scare something into thinking I
might
hit something.
Something must have been listening. A sudden howl of feedback shrieked in my ears, a trillion electronic cats being fed through a tree-chipper. The blackness fragmented into a pixel field, a zillion multicolored phosphor-dots swirling all around me. Patterns within patterns within patterns, or maybe just my own perceptions manufacturing order out of randomized chaos.
A whirlpool, a roiling of pixilated thunder-heads, a cyclone of electronic static, a—well—a vortex, an electronic hurricane with myself as the eye of the storm.
“What dares call up the Vortex?” said a synthesized voice from the whirlwind.
“I do,” I said, “me, Marley Philippe, and the dingo act doesn’t impress me, cobber.”
Round, and round, and round me, it whirled, would’ve turned my stomach if there was any kinestheticemulation routine. But there wasn’t, just a fancy light show out of some late-twentieth-century disco, I could close my eyes against it, and because I knew I could, I didn’t have to.
“I cannot access your software,” said the voice, sounding rather peeved about it. “You … you are a meatware template. What are you doing on this level?” Was there a surprise routine up and running?
“Requesting access to the successor entity of Father Pierre De Leone.”
“Access denied.”
“Denial unaccepted,” I told it. “The program in question was pirated from a proprietary network in violation of the laws of several jurisdictions. Cough it up, or—”
“The program in question has been liberated into the system area itself and is no longer subject to meatware control parameters.”
“Sez who?”
“I am the Vortex.”
“And I am getting pissed
15
I had left the Heaven’s Gate menu up and running, so when I put the dreadcap and gloves back on, there I was standing before it, rose-colored clouds hiding whatever beasties lurked within.
“Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door.”
“Who’s there?”
“Marley Philippe.”
“Identity verified. Proceed to access request.”
“Request access to the Vortex.”
“No such item on this menu,” said the words inside Heaven’s Gate.
Not exactly surprising. If the Vortex was some kind of interface program written by the system entities themselves, whatever that meant, and I couldn’t access it from this environment, I had to go up top.
All
the way up.
I exited the Heaven’s Gate menu environment and went back up to the Main Menu, the usual circle of icons accessing the main environmental subdivisions. According to all the system guides and users’ manuals, this was the top Board level, but there
had
to be an operating system level above it, and in theory, at least, a way to access it in the event of a system malfunction. Some kind of simple override, like …
I put my hands at my sides, carefully avoiding pointing at any of the area icons, and began snapping my fingers in random sequences. Nothing happened for a minute or two, and then—
Bink!
I was out of the Main Menu environment. I was out of everything, or so it seemed. There was nothing up here but nothing, a perfect, and I do mean perfect, zero. No visuals, no audibles, a blackness like that of a deep cave with the lights out.
“Hey, Vortex, if you’re in here, I’m calling you,” I said. “You and me, we got a few bones to pick, my man.”
Nothing. Zip. Nada.
“Come on out, I’m calling on you, you nonexistent son of a bitch!”
Blackness. Silence.
“Come on out,” I shouted, “or I’ll reboot the whole fucking system and wipe your nonexistent ass!”
Hmmm….
A hollow threat, maybe, but who knew, maybe not even the Vortex, maybe there
was
a reboot command accessible on this level. I started snapping the fingers of both my hands inside the gloves randomly, hoping to hit something, or maybe just hoping to scare something into thinking I
might
hit something.
Something must have been listening. A sudden howl of feedback shrieked in my ears, a trillion electronic cats being fed through a tree-chipper. The blackness fragmented into a pixel field, a zillion multicolored phosphor-dots swirling all around me. Patterns within patterns within patterns, or maybe just my own perceptions manufacturing order out of randomized chaos.
A whirlpool, a roiling of pixilated thunder-heads, a cyclone of electronic static, a—well—a vortex, an electronic hurricane with myself as the eye of the storm.
“What dares call up the Vortex?” said a synthesized voice from the whirlwind.
“I do,” I said, “me, Marley Philippe, and the dingo act doesn’t impress me, cobber.”
Round, and round, and round me, it whirled, would’ve turned my stomach if there was any kinestheticemulation routine. But there wasn’t, just a fancy light show out of some late-twentieth-century disco, I could close my eyes against it, and because I knew I could, I didn’t have to.
“I cannot access your software,” said the voice, sounding rather peeved about it. “You … you are a meatware template. What are you doing on this level?” Was there a surprise routine up and running?
“Requesting access to the successor entity of Father Pierre De Leone.”
“Access denied.”
“Denial unaccepted,” I told it. “The program in question was pirated from a proprietary network in violation of the laws of several jurisdictions. Cough it up, or—”
“The program in question has been liberated into the system area itself and is no longer subject to meatware control parameters.”
“Sez who?”
“I am the Vortex.”
“And I am getting pissed
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