From: burns@latcs1.oz.au (Jonathan Burns)
Subject: Viy


It costs me a good deal to be out without Viy. Keep fingering the key to
the safe-deposit box at the metro, thinking, those places are no way safe,
I ought to go back and check. Then I'd have a reason for not going out
tonight, of course, and I'd put it off another week...

But thank god I left her behind. The moment I confirmed the tatty neon
once said 'chatsubo', three polite men stopped me to ask what I might
be intending to do there. I was about to muffle on about meeting friends.
Then I realized they might want to know who these friends were. Tried to
sound like the little nobody from Perth, goggle-eyed over the big bad exotic
Chiba, which was no more than the truth, after all.

They let me go, then as I had my hand on the door, the leader muttered
(but so it would carry) 'innocent bystander'.  The whole street was sparse,
the locals know there's something here to avoid. Come down to the Port, rub
shoulders with outlaws and privateers. Live action is sad.

So this is it, huh? Where the legend, somehow, begins. As legends so often
do, in the most unpromising circumstances. And man, does this place look
the part. Small groups closed in on their private worlds and languages.
Some office clerks in suits, suppose I walked up and said how about a job?
Trio of US black boys with fluoro teeth and slit-eye contacts. Now who
would that be? Surely not employed, that's an anti dress code for real.
They can't be a local gang, they'd be run off the street in a minute.
They'll be a band, that's it. Doing a video take with the Chiba for
backdrop. Prostitutes sitting bored along the bar in timeless patterned
stockings and minis.

So then, Emil, this is the time and here is the place. And you are a
free man. With what heady liquor will you fill this cup? Spread your
cards, let's take a look.

This is where the legend begins. Or more properly, where the facts end.
And you're hoping that this, in some obscure way, will rub off on you.
This is where, some years ago, Case used to hang out. A clever little
bastard, Case, that's all you could say for him. A cowboy kid fallen
on bad times. As you, Emil, are a cowboy gone to seed, with a comfy
little round as a hired man when the train comes in and they push the
pigs and cattle up the ramp. And the far horizons shrinking in on you.
A free man, without the imagination to fill his freedom.

>From this place, Case drops from sight, and nobody cares. Except that,
from that time, things begin to change. Along with the eternal convection
of cowboy inside information, there is suddenly a Big Inside. Seemingly
at random, little wannabee crackers are pulling off unbelievable stunts.
Solid players disappear from the grid, some in circumstances of fantastic
horror. Devil-may-cares form esoteric societies, become stolid guardians
of peculiar mysteries. And wherever rumours are traded, up pops the name
Case. A friend of a friend has seen him, or encountered him in the Matrix.
Not doing much, just getting on, but dropping oracular bits of advice
that save a friend of a friend from some real wilson in the course of time.
Case, the cryptic avatar of the Big Inside.

How about that, Emil? You and Viy, brain-coupled and planing for the
Big Inside? Do you want that? How badly?

Great way to be solitary. How many months or years do you want to be
seeking favours, cheating and scheming for an inside track? How many
friends would you make that way, how many people would learn to trust
you? And where is the woman who would share you with a hot deck and
a mirage of Eldorado? Ah, the woman.

Look around. Any of these women could be yours, let's pretend. Or their
lookalikes. All it takes is the will. The bar-girls with their habits
and one-night horizons? That would be justice. You with your keyspace
enigmas, her with the inwardness of her drug experiences, her hair-and-
skin-salon politics. Two faces turned inward on themselves. How about
the brain-burnt baby who brought your saki? Adopt a daughter. Look
after her, that's nice. Let her go eventually to the man she truly falls
for.

No, no, damn it! I want to share! I want friends at my back, I want a
girl who sees _an_ Eldorado, even if it's not mine, I can learn. If I
thought one of these could pour her own cup full, I'd be across the
room in an instant. At the service of your dreams, madam. Myself and
my box of tricks, Viy say hello to the nice lady. A junior manager,
well well. I'll join your company, in two weeks no cupboard will be
locked to you. A radical, wow. Let me introduce Viy, we're a team,
we can lift stuff from the guys who lifted it from ARES.

So what are my dreams, you ask? What do I do? My dear, that's the very
question I came here to answer, shall we share cointreaus and consider
it?

Pick up your phone. There's your teledex, touch an icon. Or go to the
directory, say the yellow pages. They used to have these tremendous
books, you see, with yellow paper, you'd turn to Gardening Supplies
and there would be all these numbers. Now it's like a photo album with
everybody's talking commercials. No difference, click and you're in.

Now you're connected to a node, a gridpoint, and this node is sending you
information packets from where you've dialed. And everyone else's packets,
going wherever they go.

Viy, she's a super-phone, that's all a deck is. Viy's her own little
node, with all the software the big nodes have, but on a smaller scale.
And sound, and vision, but better than that she's got neuro, it comes
down the jack and looks just like sound and vision to me.

So I jack into Viy, you've seen this on TV, and I can see all the packets
going through. Mostly going to other nodes, so I plot them on a big
cyberspace map of all the nodes, and here I am in the Matrix.

Now I can't see what's _in_ the packets, that's all encrypted. But I can
see where they're going, where they come from. And if I look at just one
stream of packets, then just maybe Viy can decode it. She knows the
standard encryption methods, and a lot of old keys that we've collected
over the years; and we have a mass more of that stashed around the world
in public space. And we can improvise.

Well I won't bore you with the details, although the details are pretty
wild, and they're really mostly what I'm about. What it comes down to,
is I can tap phones and look in places where I'm not supposed to. And
of course there's been this secret war that everybody knows about, been
going on for years between people who do just that. I'm an amateur,
we call ourselves deckheads, crackers, cowboys, all that.

As cowboys go, I'm pretty harmless. A few raids here and there, but
mostly what I do is get jobs. I crack into some outfit, prowl around
low management, hit the personnel office, and after a while I find
someone I can offer my services to. You know, some database shuffling,
straighten out a jammed up expert shell, do a little discreet spying.
Make somebody's job easier, so they can look like an eager beaver and
get ahead. And in return, they show me round the personnel system, and
ease me onto the payroll. Viy has a collection of job application forms
that's amazing, and faked-up resumes for all situations. In a good week,
I'll be moonlighting in five or six companies, in any of thirty or forty
identities that I have. When I'm not making money, I have lots of spare
time to play disencryptions with Viy. I'm not super-rich, but I do OK.

Yeah, I talk about _her_, don't I? Viy is my familiar spirit, you know,
like a genie in a bottle. Naturally I'm talking to myself as I mouse
around, and it gets into the feedback. I say good girl, and she remembers
that, then later on in a similar situation she says, hey, wanna try this
one again? She planes around the Matrix on her own heuristic, and I see
through her eyes. She's a learning algorithm, she's very good.

As good as I'll let her be.

I named her after the Soviet fighter plane, yes. It's a Russian name,
it means vampire.

Hmm. Got lost in your thoughts there, hey Emil. Don't stay in there too
long, boy, you came her to mingle. Who's here? Big biker type, loafing
around with a steel guitar... lord, there's a case, he looks really
_sick_, I notice no-one's sitting within three tables of him... couple
of guys sitting down, hey, they've got Effinger's Game here, far out!
That's the Chiba edge for you.

I do OK.

No women. At least nobody I can credibly cast as the intelligent,
understanding, high-caliber woman I've been babbling to. Hey, lemme
stick with you, honey, you draw me out.

						[ more to come ]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jonathan Burns        | Clashing for the warrior, whose strength is not to fight
burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au| Clashing for the refugee, on the unarmed road of flight
Computer Science Dept | And for each and every underdog soldier in the night
La Trobe University   | We gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing    -Dylan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


>From: burns@latcs1.oz.au (Jonathan Burns)
Subject: Upstairs, with the Dragon (Viy continued)
Date: 11 Mar 91 08:24:31 GMT


I can't help but be fascinated with Effinger's Game. Sure, simstim players
are cheap, but that's just broadcasting neural stimulation over ordinary
sound and vision, with a lot of feedback hooks. I thought a true synthesizer
was still a roomfull of equipment, until I started hearing about the big
breakthrough in hallucination theory last year. And here it is just
sitting in a waterfront bar, pop your card in the slot.

I sit down in the little two-player cubbyhole. There are switches for
GAME, SOLO, MEDIA and PROGRAM. Pop on the trodes, card in. SOLO, MEDIA.

Ouch! Suddenly I'm on stage at the Tiger Balm Auditorium with two
hundred watts of guitar and keyboard blasting away and the backing
chorus of Singapura teenies in long lime slit skirts becoming realler
and realler ... [*]

Popout. MEDIA menu to LOCAL SGNL. Nobody broadcasting from within the
Chatsubo itself, presumably.

I look around, things look much as normal. Except there's a sort of
trippy sneaks-up-on you glow about things. Everyone's a caricature, the
drinkers are a farce of synthetic fun, the bar girls are like children
raiding the theatre props department for femme fatale froufrou. The
darkness toward the back acquires a crescent moon and some five-pointed
stars.

I find I can leave my seat and walk around all this, touching things.
Most peculiar sensation. A lucid dream. One moment it's real as old
leather, the next moment toonville. I can even buy a Carlsberg at
the bar: a hallucinatory Ratz (by Sienciwicz, 1988) taps it into a
toon glass, and it tastes real.

A dragon, lounging on the bar with two elbows and wrapped around two
stools, raises his glass in salute.

"Er, good evening".

"You found your way upstairs" says the dragon. "Excellent! We are a
select company as yet. Our host has a pardonably cautious attitude
to patrons bringing their own processors; and of course we dare not
open the floodgates to the media."

"Perish the thought. It would simply trash the ambience."

"My thought entirely. The great tradition with taverns is for folk to
make their own entertainment. And with virtual reality, the need for
tedious small talk is much lessened. I see you are accompanied, by
the way, would you care to introduce us?"

						[ to be continued ]


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jonathan Burns        | It's a bonanza when Veronica plays piannica
burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au| On my granda-momma's oldio piazzica
Computer Science Dept | With the whistle of the B and O
La Trobe University   | Booting out a obligatti-gattigo!  - LaFemme et Owl, '51
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


From: burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au (Jonathan Burns)
Subject: Viy (continued)
Date: 11 Apr 91 08:41:15 GMT


{ With apology for the hiatus...

Emil showed up at the Chat a few weeks ago in our time, but it's still
his first evening here within the narrative.

Emil has been wondering whether to have cold feet about having his
visual cortex rewired, the better to interface with his deck, whom
he calls Viy. He's being chatting up Miss J.J. Faust, and feeling
better, he tries out Effinger's Game, a neat little virtual reality
synthesizer which is just too good to be a coin-in-the-slot amusement
in a sleazy bar like this, but that's the Chatsubo for you.

He thus encounters the Dragon... }

"I notice you are accompanied. Won't you introduce us?"

Look around, no one there. "?"

"An agent" says the Dragon impatiently. "An avatar, an ally, an alter
ego, an adjunct to your aesthesia. You can't pretend you don't know."

"_Viy_?? Come on! Viy's in a safe a mile from here and not plugged in.
Now I know I'm making you up."

Sigh, with curling smoke. "Solipsism, the curse of cyberspace. Enabled
or not, your familiar is evidenced in a dozen signs. Eye movement for
a start. Do you know how much you can tell about a person from hir
visual scanning patterns? The game uses them as a primary directive.
And you, my friend, have two quite distinct sets."

"Beg pardon for doubting your reality. Look, this is quite important.
How much more can you tell about Viy, just from my own signals?"

The Dragon unwinds himself from the barstools, and waves me across
to an armchair beneath a potted palm. He arranges himself luxuriously
around a sofa, and clicks his talons to attract a toonette waitress.

"When you've been around simstim for a while, you get pretty good at
EEG reading. Your own reveals a high density of internal communication.
You attend to internals of your cognition the way a pingpong player
does to the visual field. Those internals themselves attend to certain
quasi-sensory signals, which is where your deck plugs in, mm-hmm? In
essense, you have built up a secondary persona to handle high-speed
input. Someone fast, focussed, unemotional, and unconcerned with your
body's little quirks and quavers. How am I doing?"

"Viy to a T."

"OK. At a guess, a reasonably fluent psychic would recognize your Viy
as a distinct persona. You could manifest .... hmmm .... her? Ahah!
Through automatic writing or mirror-working. But of course the royal
road is simply to jack in, or to imagine that you are. Want to try,
just as an experiment?"

I imagine the plug going in, the fall into phospheme feedback...
the tight readiness to / hit the dataflow / speedreading / spread /
space / scan
		and a cold little voice says <Fool.>

"Bravo!" calls the Dragon.

Viy?

<I thought we were partners. Where's my connection?>

Hey, hey. This is getting weird.

<Leave me in a monorail locker, eh? Come to the pub to get philosophical
and think about retirement. Typical of the bourgeois adolescent on the
edge of commitment. I think it is time we were having a serious discussion,
Emil.>

The Dragon is having a modest fit on the sofa. He's trying not to
giggle, but it keeps bursting out his ears and nostrils in spurts of
flame and smoke. "Excellent audio rez, Emil! Now try a visual."

All right Viy, get over there where I can see you.

First there's a darkening shimmer in the air, then bang, a completely
accurate Viy-20 fighter in miniature.

"Some game."

"It stirs up your memories, I believe, then locks on by feedback. Still,
nice visualization."

"Jane's Combat Aircraft ,'08. It started coming out on holodisk in '04,
I think."

<Not quite me. Give me some slack.>

The clean fuselage is overlaid suddenly by the box-kite trusses of a
Sanyo Swallow-3F ultralite. The outlines fuse into a long faceted shell,
elegantly streamlined, sinisterly mass-conservative. It suggests a
dragonfly, and at once the dragonfly is in there too, the long wings
flexing and glittering. Compound eyes pop up at the tip of the nose
cone, then recess backward and into the cone itself, as the facets
multiply and become iridescent pixels whose colours flow into golden
irises with black slit pupils.

Then I'm seeing through those eyes. A hallucination of perfect focus
and multiplex vision. It accepts the Game's entire stream of visual
input, squeezes it into a fisheye tunnel in a Matrix void.

That's when I understand. We reach accommodation, Viy and me.

People have very particular ideals, that they can't always talk about.
One person is a _dancer_, not by training nor by recognition, just is.
Another is a _maker of sense_, working every moment towards a cloudless
seamless explanation. And I, I see things. That's what I do, it's for the
seeing. I step out of my body, now, into total vision.

"Woah ho, boy! Leave some for us!" That's the Dragon.

There's me, there's the dragon, and there's Viy hovering between us.
Her demon eyes cast dark rays, that scan the bar and disassemble it.
We fall, the three of us into the Matrix.

						[ more to come ]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jonathan Burns        |  you mean twenty years of doctor who serials
burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au|  havent taught you not to trust characters
Computer Science Dept |  with names like intel & zilog ?
La Trobe University   |                          - archy's core dump
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

>From: burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au (Jonathan Burns)
Subject: Viy (continued)
Date: 29 Apr 91 02:50:00 GMT



Fall out into cyberspace. See the city, Boeing # CrysTech # Bourke & Raymond
# Sony # Hyundai # United Technologies # Times-Warner # Gottlieb-O'Hare,
castles and pyramids the heraldry of commercial communication power!

Warm your spread wings in the flash and flicker of ten million people
playing, conversing, shopping, studying and kicking back with a stim
and a pizza and a beer. Bank and swing around the skysweeping pylons
of KTM, BBC, N3N, Hong Kong Holoview all snowdusted with their eager
viewers. Brush the barbed wire of Leinster Armaments, draw blue
electric flashes of warning from their guard-dog softagents WILL BE
PROSECUTED/HAVE BEEN REGISTERED AND WILL RECEIVE/INTRUSION COUNTER-
MEASURES ELECTRONIC/WARNING/LICENCED TO/WARNING!

Blink your eyes and shuffle the city like a conjurer's pack of cards.
Swoop the phonebook, here are a thousand guitar emporiums, three
thousand toyshops, nine thousand womens' cosmetics, a hundred luxury
cruises. And reefs, praries, horizons wide of people. Skim in, a
kilometer of Hidoshis! Reach down a claw, their passport photos will
spray up before you like bow-spume. Touch, and see the call zigzag away
from node to node, ring the bell and run away like wicked children!

Where am I? A dream within a dream, milord. Viy building this hallucination
of cyberspace faster than my eyes can track, lashing the visionSynth
wafers of Effinger's Game to a gallop, raiding at pleasure the frame
buffers of the Chatsubo's big-dish display. Naughty! And Viy herself
only my imaginings of Viy fed back redoubled through my mind.

What will she be like when we are together, fused into one flesh-and-
superlattice brain?

<Like this, tovarich. Why ever did you hesitate?>

Glance around, there is the Dragon pacing yourViy's dragonfly airframe.
His scaled wings sweeping the not-air and locking into Dive Position.
Think CHATSUBO and the phonebook blots white then displays a still
drawing  elegant  a peaceful small tavern in the hills, a nesting
stork, a kimono'ed maiden with a beaded jug and two small cups.

Touch. A bare menu says SALOON | OFFICE | RATZ | ZONE | TAMIKO | KIM |
DIANNE | VIRTUALS | THE PIT | YOUR RISK BUNKY. Touch DIANNE, who
could resist? Dianne, startled at her mirror, turns smiling to me
all long eyebrow and bare shoulder. She is not in at this time, she
purrs, but if I would care to make an appointment, and her calendar
appears in the corner.

Thank you Dianne but not tonight, popout, touch VIRTUALS, fall into a
hall of mirrors, a hockey game, a burst of protocols, a bar where a man
is talking with a dragon. Collapse the mirrors, hello Dragon, we're
home.

There is another man here. Young, unkempt, overwrought, his hands
straying from his coffee to the arms of his chair to each other.
As if he wants to reassure himself of the solidity of things. But
solidity, in this wonderland of images, he will never find.

"Emil" says the Dragon, rubbing a coil against the velvet of his
imaginary sofa, "I want you to meet Tarren. I think you may have
some things in common."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jonathan Burns        |  The Iron Code in Core Above is binding on our race,
burns@latcs1.lat.oz.au|  And so you drop him in his tracks
Computer Science Dept |     and reassign his space.     - April Fool Kipling
La Trobe University   | parody in a forgotten issue of Datamation -
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~