Chips,
chips, chips. Chips everywhere, in everything. As small as
pinpoints, as cheap as popcorn, beyond taken for granted.
Chips inside you. Chips that know you, help you, tell on
you, talking to the Interface, the Face, linking you to
everybody and everything through your InVision video
implant, hard wired to your senses, a seamless confluence of
actual and virtual realities, sights and sounds, flowing in
and out of perception, easy as birds on the wing.
As
for information, everything you'd ever want to know from the
price of Yum Drops to the list of molecules that comprise
your body is at your fingertips, every detail of every deed
you've ever done: videos, photos, chats, charts, comments,
certificates, letters, scribbles, memos, diaries,
dissertations, rants, reports, secrets, confessions,
speeches, stories, strategies, lists, plans, diagrams,
patents, diagnoses, prescriptions, x-rays, and MRIs.
Everything about you is known, down to your last heartbeat,
and every bit public.
Pick
up anything, there's a chip embedded. Take that dirty sock
over there. The one hanging out of the dumpster. Go ahead
pick it up. Now, scan the chip in the sock for data. There
it is: price, style, size, manufacturer, retailer, date of
sale, consumer ID, consumer's fashion preferences, music
preferences, political leanings, voting record, sex
preferences, sex partners, record of sexual performance,
everything. Never mind that the chip is no larger than a
flyspeck. The information in that sock can tell a whole
life's story. Just scan the data. Go on. Have a look for
yourself -- and this is how the viewing begins.
. . .
Play
>
A
man sleeps uneasily in a bed. Mini cameras embedded in the
walls and ceiling monitor him. He awakens and sees himself
in the cycling images on his InVision. More views of the
small apartment: bare walls, a chair, a table, clothes on
the floor, toilet articles, a backpack. A status light
blinks at the side of the frame.
Status
yellow
He
raises himself on an elbow and says, "Helper?"
A
virtual character appears in his InVision frame. Artificial
looking, its saturated colors differentiate it from objects
of the real world.
The
man says, "Recognize me."
The
helper asks, "Who?"
"Me. Recognize me."
Status
green
"Oh,
sorry Vinny."
"What
do you mean, you're sorry?"
"I
must have been distracted."
Vinny
shakes his head, dismissing the helper. He sits up, drawing
his legs to his chest. He confides to a surveillance camera.
"I had that dream again, the one about my skin. I was in bed
and it was hot, like it is outside. I was covered in sweat.
My navel was filled with sweat. It pooled in the palms of my
hands. My skin looked transparent. It sloughed off in layers
from my forearms, peeling like the pages of a waterlogged
book. I tried to press it back. No use. And there were
people around me, reaching, pulling off pieces of my skin. I
asked, how much skin are you going to take? Someone said, how much do you
have?
"Even when I'm awake the dream stays with
me. Look at me now, how I'm sweating, and it's perfectly
cool in here. All day long I'm checking the skin on my
hands, like a hypochondriac nut case. It's ridiculous. I
know perfectly well people don't lose their skin. But what
if it were to come off, I mean really come off? What if it did? What if it came off when I wasn't
even looking? Someone should be looking. Someone should be
looking out for me, looking all the time. Someone should. I
could. I could look out for myself with the surveillance, of
course, because it's always on, like a video diary; and
then, if something really does happen, I'll have it right
there. No, I'm not crazy. All I have to do is keep it
running."
Recording
"My
temp name is Vanilla, like ice cream. My friends call me
Vinny. The Interface recognizes me as Vanilla, Mr. Vanilla,
Vinny, or whatever. After all, it's my bio-identity, my BID,
that tells the world who I really am. So I can change my
temp name any time, as often as I want. After all, what's in
a name, anyway? I chose Vanilla because of what the word
implies. It's a dangerous world, especially for people who
don't blend in. I blend in. But sometimes I'm afraid I don't
blend in well enough, because if you look too different or
talk too different, well, sooner or later you're going to
get noticed. Now, to be seen, that's OK, but to be noticed,
that's not good, not good at all. The trick is to be
recognized for who you're supposed to be, and nothing else.
It's a tricky balance, but I work at it. So, I'm just your
basic, non-flavor kind of guy. Vanilla, plain as plain can
be. Give them what they want and get along, that's what I
say.
"I'm
a video game designer, an artist. My art is all about
splitting hairs, because in my line of work detail is
everything. Realism is what they want, and that's what I
give them. Hey, check this out."
Show
Hammerman
A
muscular, helmeted commando appears in his InVision. The
blast protector over a battle-scarred face rises with a
servo motor sound revealing a cold stare beneath a massive
brow. The war fighter's khaki shirtsleeves are rolled up to
his armpits. On one biceps is the tattoo of a shrunken head
suspended by its hair.
"Look
closely. It's a woman. Look at those eyelashes, notice how
fine and dainty. And if you look real close, see that?
They're actually fluttering in the breeze. I simulated that.
Not one hair on her head that I didn't put there."
The
eyelids open on shriveled eyeballs. One eye winks.
"Damn,
dead people don't wink."
Note:
check for skewing error
The
view widens in Vinny's InVision. "There's a lot more to this
work than just visual detail. Take his expression, but it's
even more than that. It's what's behind the look that makes
Hammerman - Blood Warrior so special. It's his psychology.
Look into his eyes. You can almost tell what he's thinking,
but not quite. And that's the art of it. To get that look
just right I had to understand what pushes his button. And
to get down to that level I had to ask myself, what in the
world would inspire a guy to get a tattoo of a shrunken head
on his arm -- the head of a woman? I knew if I could answer
that, I'd have the key to a real killer hero. So I thought
about that long and hard. And when it finally came to me, it
was so simple. This guy is evil.
"And
they proved me dead-nuts right. Because that's exactly what
everybody said, wow, Hammerman, he is reallyevil. And I mean evil that's not just good
evil, but the very best kind of evil, if you know what I
mean. He's all about complexity, like the star of a
Shakespearean video. I'm telling you, this dude is going to
put me on the fast track in this business, and then there's
no telling what might come my way. Hey, look at this.
Show
album
"I've
been working on a family album." A simulated, leather-bound
volume appears on his InVision. It's tied with a white silk
ribbon that gracefully unwraps itself. The cover opens.
Vinny's animated family is framed in rosewood and gold. His
mother and sister are seated. Vinny stands behind his
sister, his father behind his mother. Dad smiles
enthusiastically. He is short, even standing his is head
barely higher than his dour seated wife. His sister squints,
looking off to one side.
"This
is my dad. Dad, say a few words."
"Yeah,
hey. Vin, you know, hey, OK. So what can I say? Well, Vin,
yeah, all right. You know, Vin, you're numero uno in my
book, my main man. Isn't that right Vin?
"You
bet Dad."
"Me
and Vin, we're a lot more than just father and son. Real
buds. Isn't that right, Vin?"
"Sure
thing, Dad."
"Best
friends?"
"The
best."
"True
to the end?"
"Minute
by minute."
"No
secrets?"
"Open
book."
"Share
and share alike?"
"You
bet."
"I
always know I can count on you, Son."
"Whatever
you say, Dad."
"And
you know, Vin, about that loan? You know I'd never ask if it
wasn't really necessary. Right?"
"Sure,
Dad."
"Like
I tell people, I can always count on Vinny."
Vinny
says, "Mom?"
The
woman adjusts herself in her chair. "You know it's some kind
of miracle that we're even here. If it wasn't for Vinny,
there's no telling." With a sweep of her arm she indicates
the room. "I can't say I'm thrilled about this little place,
but beggars can't be choosers." She turns her eyes on her
husband, and shakes her head. "And him, well..."
"Can
we talk about Dad later, Mom? This is for my memory book."
"You
want smiles? I can smile, if that's all you want."
"And
Sis?" says Vinny.
She's
chatting to the images of a dozen girlfriends set in windows
around her on the page. "And it's not like I hadn't already
told him hey you can do that all you want and see if I even
give a big one but if he thinks I'm going to put up with
that he better think again because that doesn't go down with
me no way man when I can chat up another guy on the Face
quicker than he can pick his nose and not even give it a
second thought as though I even care what he thinks anyhow
and even if he wanted to make up with me I mean why should I
the way he's been fooling around and everybody talking about
it and all and even to strangers who don't even know me and
even if they did so what's the difference anyway?"
"Sis?"
Silent,
she averts her eyes.
"Come
on, Sis, we know you have lots to say. So say something for
the album. Please?
He
waits. She drops her eyes to her feet. Crossing her arms on
her chest, she hugs herself.
"Maybe
next time, huh? Sis?"
The
memory book closes and the ribbon reties itself.
"Not
perfect, but they're the only family I have."
