www.jerrystout.us

By: arkowitz (at gmail.com)

Chapter 1: Operation GlassHouse

Outside it was pecan trees and fields in twilight. Inside the cluttered room it was lamplight and CNN. Isolated in rural Gadsden County, Fl., Arkowitz was connected to the entire world. And his access was not just read-only.

GlassHouse. Operation GlassHouse was all he could think of when he looked up from his keyboard to the darkening window. And the seven names.

GlassHouse
CROATOAN
Mister Wick
vol2
playdo
The Specter
Arkowitz

But he didn’t know how to feel or so he thought. And mind offered up a crunchy sensation. It was going. Was a thing not noticed before messages popped up (fifty an hour) from areas not reachable by the conscious without training…

Hours and hours of fluff were extruded by his fingers as catharsis; but they were only warmup and signs of addiction. Ever noticed the way thoughts flow kind of differently when you’re typing than when you’re writing? The best is a smooth-flowing fine black Pilot that makes just enough of a scratching sound on white paper. Not snow-white; not pure white; shouldn’t white be enough?

All must be accepted. There can be no feeling. But the goal is not the oblivion which beckons from the larynx of each moron I remember. Ha. But he lost the thread.

Now I don’t claim to necessarily practice what I preach, but the key to the whole social thing is selflessness. Can enlightenment be digital? Do you really know what it is? Feeling! Not your finger surrounded by warm wet pillows and telling your mind’s eye what it’s like in there. Not your face in a chill wind ramping up a bald mountain with views of valleys, ridges, and fields. Neither naked on the tip of a rocket nor surrounded by sweating bodies in a mosh at the Rubber Moon. Here, again, I am braving a vast wasteland of tritisms. Symbiotic words. Tractlessness denied, like the bad breath you get from cheerios.

I tried to get away from, well, the tv; but I had to be connected. Magazines are super-doses of media (provided they are current) and I started using them to supplement hours of tv. And back on that bald mountain, on several of them, I tried to stay there and did, wearing all the clothes I had and lying with my back to the slope (hugging the ground and myself) and eating candybars, tunafish, whatever I had, and drinking water and instant lemonade, and watching the clouds slip overhead but not being able to stay there as long as I wanted in the whipping wind.

And I remember the birches and the zigzag trail on the way up there, and my bandana tied onto my staff, stuck in the grass at the top.

—

These past few days were an on-ramp going down into a green-phosphor world. And the beginning of my fight with Big Brother. Computer types tend to be libertarians, as my friend Ace T observed one day. I think this is so because people who deal with digital all day hate compromise and miscommunication, and trust only clear, simple rules. We think we are controlling, programming the computers. But every action has an equal and opposite reaction, doesn’t it? The computers are programming us, too! The world is a layer-cake to my eyes. I believe in mysteries, yes; but each one has a very simple explanation. We just don’t know enough about the system on a low level. At least there’s the magic line between dreaming about something and doing it…

For a mystery right now I have this tv program on PBS. There are a bunch of doctors and a bunch of homely people with oxygen tubes strapped under their noses. I don’t know why all these people have tubes strapped under their noses, because the sound is off. I have substituted The Beatles. I like to look up from the computer screen and see people there. Even oxygen-tubed ones who don’t look very happy. The doctors don’t seem too sad; heck, maybe I’m seeing their biggest moment right now.

I’m really starting to wonder why these people have to keep the tubes on. What’s wrong with them? I have to know! But I wouldn’t know if I were watching another channel, would I? So I’m not necessarily missing something.

I had to know where the bandwidth was going, too.

—

CROATOAN was actually the seventh “adjustor” of the global system – master enigma of an obscure process. His access was complete, but he chose to remove his power himself, and relinquished it so that the people of the world might have meaningful communication.

The first of the Wizards of the Lines was GlassHouse, and all were known as GlassHouse. And GlassHouse was the power of invisible persuasion. GlassHouse pervades the global network and invades the inner sanctums of the czars of Babylon. GlassHouse centralized control and brought the Global Reengineering Process into being.

The child and right-hand-man of GlassHouse was Mr. Wick; negotiator, facilitator, comedian. Mr. Wick was a master of social engineering, and brought about the physical manifestation of the force we call GlassHouse.

vol2 was the master of Tech and the solver of problems, and his brainpower was one of the prized possessions of the Seven Wizards.

playdo was a hitman.

Nobody knows who The Specter is – but he is the only Wizard who refused to give up his powers at the end of the Global System Upgrade.

And I’m Alexander Arkowitz.

—

When I first met the Wickster I was browsing an account of some elderly senator’s entertainment expenses. I had just tabbed down to an item labeled “female dancers at cock and tail party for Yamashiro Yoshida of Sakitumi Corp” (or something similar – I was already beginning to lose the ability to differentiate), when I was prompted “User mloki requests chat conference”. I went into chat mode.

cgabriel: hello what do you want

mloki: I see you have traveled a long and winding road to get to
this host. It was not necessary as this system is
under my protection. Please state your business here.

cgabriel: fuck off dude

mloki: I’ll give you another chance to save your ass. They’ve
already traced you back to the userid “test3″ on
hercules.cs.tsu.edu. And I believe they have a phone
trace up-and-coming. It would behoove you to cooperate
with me, as I have the power to delete all records of
your having been on this system.

cgabriel: who are you? your language is pretty flowery for a
hacker. and your no operator.

mloki: How perceptive.

cgabriel: your one of those hiredgun security specialists.

mloki: perhaps…

cgabriel: well it wont hurt to ask what the hell you want?

mloki: You’re no hacker, either.

cgabriel: what do you want

mloki: You’ll see.

cgabriel: and you can kiss my ass^Z
EOF

Two days later I got an E-mail on my supposedly secret account on cerberus.

From: mrwick@cqr.sscorp.com
To: arkowitz@cerberus.cs.tsu.edu

Greetings! Talked to you the other day as mloki; remember? I thought about calling you (your phone number is (904)555-2198), but unfortunately it is company policy not to telephone prospective applicants before preliminary review via E-mail. So… I’ve attached an application for a General Host Security Specialist II position with SSCorp (Security Strategies Corporation). Looking forward to hearing from you soon!

Mr. Kenneth C. Wick, Senior Security Adminstrator, SSCorp

The stinker had me hook line and sinker. In two weeks I was in the office of a Mr. J. C. Kuncicky (rhymes with rhye whiskey), president and CEO of SSCorp.

Kuncicky: Mr. Wick speaks quite highly of you. And I think you
have the characteristics we’re looking for in this
position.

Arkowitz: I’m definitely interested in this job.

Kuncicky: Well, then, how about reporting to Mr. Wick Monday
morning?

Arkowitz: Sounds great!

Kuncicky: OK then. Becky has some forms you’ll need to fill out,
and I’m sure Wick will want to talk to you. OK, nice
to have you aboard, Mr. Arkowitz.

—

Wick: I say, welcome to the team, old bean.

Arkowitz: Thank you, I’m sure, Mr. Wick.

Wick: Aha! You’ll do quite nicely. What a lucky young lad! No
better place to be than under the wide wing of Wick.

Arkowitz: <phthuh, phthuh>

Wick: <snicker>

—

Alexander C. Arkowitz, Security Jock. Flip your dark glasses from your squinty eyes with a flick of a supple wrist. Set the aluminum briefcase on the conference table with one arm, slap down a report with the other. Open the case. Take out a sleek black subnotebook with built-in mobidem.

Look at each face in turn as the modem dials and connects. <DEET DEET DEET sssshhhhhhhhh> Let’s see, we have the president of Acme Foods and By-products, Inc. (or something like that…, the CIO, the Executive VP, the Database Administrator, Chief of Operations, Security Administrator (looking rather worried, I must say), and some random IS peons, Acme’s technical experts, no doubt.

Acme wouldn’t be particularly worried about security if one of their subsidiaries didn’t produce chemical weapons for covert export world-wide. But they didn’t tell me that; it was my job to find it out. The president had contacted SSCorp. two weeks ago; but it had only taken me two days to find what I would need to make a point in this meeting.

Three short pairs of beeps let me know that the PC had connected. By now all eyes were on the projection screen at the other end of the room.

AFBI Dial-in Menu

1. Log into ACC1
2. Log into ACC2
3. Log into GEN1
4. Log into EXEC
5. Log into MARKET
6. Telnet

I chose item 4, and logged in as ROBERTSG, password beatrice. The security administrator, Mr. Roberts, swallowed a couple times.

At the H:\> prompt, I entered “telnet 153.248.72.3″, and once connected to the host, logged in as G_ROBERTS. I think Mr. Roberts may have pissed his pants at that point. Anyway, I brought up a list of weapons plants in foreign countries, looked once more at each face in the room, and shut off the PC. I placed the unit in the briefcase, shut the briefcase, stood it on the floor next to my chair, and sat down. Mr. Wick rose.

“I hope it is safe to assume that Mr. Arkowitz’s demonstration was effective. Good. OK, you should each have a copy of our comprehensive security evaluation report. Yes, good. Ok – now, SSCorp. has already prepared a solutions package for you. Please be assured that the sensitive information obtained in our analysis will be destroyed whether or not you decide to contract with SSCorp. for your security needs; however, I think it is quite obvious that your security measures need drastic improvement, ah, and it would be in your best interest to hire SSCorp. for these improvements. Mr. Smith, perhaps we could hold a somewhat smaller meeting after a short break, or perhaps you would like to contact me after you’ve all had more time to digest the comprehensive report…”

Mr. Smith, the President, rose.

“Um… yes, well, ah, would you and Mr. Arkowitz be able to meet with me in my office in, say, one hour? Good. OK, in one hour. Good. See you in an hour.”

On the way back through the building to meet with Mr. Smith, I detoured past Mr. Roberts’ office. He was on the phone with his back to me. I hovered in his open doorway and was about to knock on the wall, but I overheard him say “Beatrice, listen. Are you still interested in that vacation you were planning in California?”

I silently turned and walked on down the hall. Oh well, survival of the fittest I guess.

—

After about six months of working on the biggest accounts of what I figured was SSCorp’s bread-and-butter business, Wick walked into my office one day. He stood in front of my desk, handed me a business card with a yellow sticky-note covering the lettering.

Me: What’s all this, then, Wick?

Wick: Well, Ark, – no, don’t take that cover off just yet – you’ve done pretty well at the extortion game <this caused me to wince, and Wick to grin>. But that’s not what you were hired for.

Me: Huh?

Wick: Nope. Congratulations are in order; you’ve been promoted!

And he turned and walked briskly out of the office. I peeled the sticky-note off the card excitedly. But all it said under there was

Operation GlassHouse

Chapter 2: The Specter

When I showed up for work the next day, I learned that Wick would be on vacation for two weeks. And I found a new workstation in my office – replete with VR headset and gloves. Under the desk were two foot pedals for skew motion control.

I used conventional methods to sign on to the LAN and check the group scheduling system for new assignments – zip. I checked my email: nada. I checked my desk and in-basket (stuffed with random papers, most of them “in” several months ago): nothing. I intercommed Becky.

A: Hi there, Becky.

B: What’s up, Alex?

A: Well, I was wondering if Ken left any messages for me or anything. I didn’t even know he was taking off!

B: Ummm… nope, don’t think so. No. Nothing. Sorry, Alex, he just decided to leave this morning.

A: Oh, OK… hey, is Mr. Kuncicky available?

B: Yup. Want me to transfer you?

A: Yeah. Thanks, Becky…

K: Arkowitz.

A: Hi Mr. Kuncicky.

K: How are you this morning, Alex?

A: Not too bad. I was wondering if Mr. Wick had anything in mind for me to do during his vacation – uh, that he might have told you about or something…

K: Well, he did mention that you might not have any major projects for a while. Why don’t you just use these next couple weeks to do some R&D?

A: OK. Sure. Thanks. Bye, Mr. Kuncicky.

K: Bye Alex. Have a nice day.

A: You too. Bye.

K: Bye.

Fun fun fun. R&D assignment #1: try out that new VR game where you pilot an F16 in the Battle of Midway. I picked it up on my way home from work the next day.

Two hours of fiddling with the VR drivers and another hour to install the game put me in the cockpit at noon. By 7:00 PM I had had my fill of killin’ Japs, and I’m quite sure they had had their fill of killing me. So I took off the accoutrements and began to tidy up my work area. When I opened my diskette box to put away my new game disks, I noticed a black diskette labeled “SSCORP VR CLIENT”. Of course I had to pop it in and install it.

Put on a VR headset and activate the system. You cross the magic line.

Several years ago the girl I was seeing called me up just after I got home from work. “Alex. If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?”

“Well, it depends on why they jumped off the bridge.”

“Alex, this is not a hypothetical question.”

“OK.”

“Montgomery Gym, ten o’clock.”

“OK.”

I guess I was the third or fourth to go. There was no light on the running water, about thirty feet below. Everybody else screamed when they pushed off the rail, or at least squealed when they felt their stomach jump half way down. But I didn’t make a sound.

I was sitting on a railing. Then I pushed off. For what must have been a second, there was nothing but motion. No thoughts. Then there was sound. Then I was in the water.

I know about magic lines.

—

The goggles flickered. SSSHHHHH in my ears for a second. Then I was back in my office. And it was virtually the same as when I left…

SSCorp. had contracted with a VR gaming company to model our entire suite, which covered the whole 31st floor of the Transcom Building. And it was a damn good job. They were using the most powerful Connection Machine available at the time, harnessing some outrageous number of teraflops of processing power. Five powerful multi-processing RISC workstations in five offices were outfitted with the latest Microsoft OVRI (Open Virtual Reality Interface) compliant user interface equipment, and were attached to a 100 megabit/second FDDI ring for communication to eachother and the VR server in the sub-basement of the building. The VR client software communicated with the host to form a distributed processing system, and each node was able to broadcast user input to all others simultaneously.

The goggles were the best available at the time, with each eye-screen providing 4096×4096 resolution in 24-bit color. And no ghosting. As I turned my head this way and that, my pulse quickened and an other-worldly sensation increased. Never had I felt so immersed in VR; the game I had just played using this same equipment had provided only the standard screen resolution of 640×400, with 4096 colors. And it had used only the processing and storage power of my workstation, a pocket calculator compared to the Connection Machine.

The virtual Arkowitz was sitting in a self-propelled ergonomic office chair with two foot pedals for slew motion control. He glided through the hallways of SSCorp. making little sound other than servo-noises from the virtual mechanicals, and a little whistle of wind in his ears. When he bumped into walls, they acted like rubber, giving way gently; but they did not spring back sharply.

VArkowitz went into every room, checking details. There was paper, all blank, and pens. The pens could mark the paper, but it was practically impossible to produce anything legible. He stuck a pen in his shirt pocket and picked up VBecky’s telephone receiver. He slowly put it to his ear. Dial-tone! He practically jumped out of his chair. Wait, this doesn’t necessarily mean anything cool… it’s probably just a simulation. He pressed buttons. They made tones. He put the receiver down, thought for a moment. He picked it up and punched 555-6376.

<RING>

<RING>

Hello?

VArkowitz: Max?

Max: Alex. What’s up?

VArkowitz: Uh… oh, uh, not much. How ’bout you?

Max: Not a lot.

VArkowitz: How’s Stephanie?

Max: Very funny, Al. Nothing’s changed since last night. What a revolten development.

VArkowitz: Sorry, bud.

Max: Aaah, no problem. I’m pretty much over it anyway. So what’s going on?

VArkowitz: Oh – um, well, I was just wondering if you were still planning to go to that new Scorsese movie tomorrow night.

Max: Yeah. Wanna go?

VArkowitz: Yeah. I’ll come over to your place around seven.

Max: Sounds good.

VArkowitz: OK. Seven then. Well – see ya at seven.

Max: OK. Take it easy.

VArkowitz: OK. Bye.

Max: Bye.

<Click>

VArkowitz’s hand was shaking as he put the receiver down. He figured that that was enough exploring for tonight, especially after glancing at the clock on VBecky’s desk and finding that it was midnight. He reached up and pulled off the headset.

—

A nice round sun rose through the eastern wall of the office. That side of the building was all glass. The girl Juliana had told him “Yellow is your favorite color, isn’t it?” He hadn’t known it ’til then, but it must have been that way for as long as he could remember. Just look at his paintings; yellow suns, yellow circles like wedding rings. Yellow highlights sticking to the sides of things. Yet he had thought it was purple when he was very young; later he had thought it was grey.

He went over to the other side of the building to be closer to the sun. There was a door in the wall that led to – ah – that led to…

OK, let’s see… it doesn’t seem to lead to anywhere. Wouldn’t want to walk out of that thing! Quite a drop. What the hell is a door doing here?

Then he caught sight of a little glimmer. As the sun rose ever so slightly, he could see a full-fledged reflection. The door apparently led to a room. A room made entirely out of glass. Not even any aluminum struts or anything! Of course, it was no problem to bond glass to glass…

The door was probably locked. People would be showing up for work soon. Might as well wander back to the old office, via the coffee pot. Yup, nice sunrise there.

He did two things simultaneously. He turned to his left to walk back through the reception area and he stuck out his right hand and pushed down on the doorhandle. The door opened. He just stood there facing the shadowy reception area, realizing it was Saturday and nobody would be showing up. He was afraid.

He took off all of his clothes. People in the street below might see him, but he wasn’t embarrassed. Somehow his body knew what to do. I guess it did. He wasn’t thinking about it at the time. He folded his clothes and placed them in a neat stack against the wall to his right – a non-glass interior wall. The thick maroon carpet felt quite nice under his toes, but the glass didn’t feel like anything at all.

He sat crosslegged in the middle of the cubic room. He looked down and became calm. He looked out at the still-rising sun. Then he realized that there was nothing under him after all. There was no glass room.

He laughed.

—

“GlassHouse prescribes things” Wick was saying, as I remembered that I was in a conversation. “GlassHouse didn’t prescribe your particular remedy. That was me. I had to prime the pump, so to speak.”

“You see, I named him after you.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, right. I see. Sorry, Wick old man, I was quite drifting off there.”

“Ha! Cut the crap, Ark, this is serious business!”

Yes indeed. A business most serious.

—

There was a strange guy down in the subbasement. I met him one day when I was using the VR system.

The feature of the SSCorp VR Client which we tended to use the most was a utility called VIRT (VIrtual Reality Terminal). You could sit in your chair and pop up screens which would hang in midair, moving around and changing size as you waved your hands. Each screen was a session on your workstation or on SSCorp’s main host, CQR. It was a poweruser’s paradise that reminded me of the sorceror’s apprentice standing on a tall peak commanding clouds, lightning, and comets like an orchestra conductor. It blew the old “desktop metaphor” out of the water. Most of us used voice recognition for character input; but Joe in the office next door had heard that there was someone in the Tech Section working on a hand-gesture system which was surprisingly precise and easy to learn.

The Tech Section occupied an unknown amount of space in the subbasement – level B2. I had always been curious about it (I seem to have a thing for doors); but my security card – hence I myself – did not have access to the big steel door labeled “PRIVATES” (someone with a sense of humour had drawn the S with a magic marker). All the other doors I had seen in the building were automatic sliding models, with sensors for opening them as people with cards approached. But the door in B2 had a card-reader next to it, just like the ones in the elevators used for access to restricted floors. What always got me was that I could use my card to get down to B2, which was restricted; but not to open that door. I never asked anyone about it, because it would have spoiled the mystery.

I had checked the door shortly after I was “promoted”. But it still would not open; I didn’t think I’d ever see what was behind there. Then I met vol2.

I had just brought up VIRT and had two screens created. I beckoned with the forefinger of my right hand and screen number 2 floated closer to me from the far wall where it had been “born”. Then I pointed the thumbs of both hands outward and wiggled them until #2 was 10 feet wide and 8 feet tall. I had made it a little too big, but I didn’t want to shrink it – so I pushed it all the way back against the far wall by thrusting the heel of my right hand out, fingers up. As it moved, my desk “passed through” it. Since my desk was now in the way, I made it disappear by saying “make desk invisible”. I amused myself with the thought that my virtual desk had become a metaphor for the desktop metaphor.

After I used voice commands to sign on to CQR, my fingers began to itch for a keyboard. If you’ve grown up using a keyboard, you can never be quite comfortable with voice commands. Of course, it’s another story if you’re some illiterate attorney who’s used to giving dictation; the computer becomes just another legal secretary.

I commanded “desk reappear” and “pedaled” my chair over to it. I grabbed the keyboard, put it in my lap, moved back, and once again banished the desk. It should be noted here that there were two types of virtual objects in the office: tangible and intangible. Tangible objects, like my keyboard, were real objects which were duplicated virtually. This allowed me to see my keyboard in the virtual world while I typed on it in the real world. Intangible objects existed only in the computer and in my brain; a situation which vol2 later taught me to recognize as extremely dangerous.

Finally I was comfortable. I didn’t really have anything to do, so I entered “who” out of habit. This command produced a list of users currently signed into CQR; and I recognized all of the users but one. You guessed it: vol2.

sschat vol2

Contacting user vol2…

User consents to chat.

vol2: Hey whats up!

ark: hello there. noticed you on line; havent met you before.

vol2: your Arkowitz. wick talked about you.

ark: oh. cool. hey what section you in?

vol2: tech.

<a little pause>

vol2: why dont you come down here. ive got something to show you.

ark: my card doesnt have access to the door

vol2: Huh? did you knock?

ark: what?

vol2: there is no security on that door except it locks

automatically and you can only open it from inside.

ark: how do you get in

vol2: all the people in tech have keys for the outside door.

ark: OK ill be there in a sec.

vol2: yo.

I rode the elevator down amid visions of Dr. Frankenstein and racks of test-tubes filled with bright-colored fluids. I rapped three times on the big steel door, which made an incredible booming noise. I grinned broadly as a loud prolonged creak accompanied the slow opening of the door. And there stood vol2. He was completely ordinary except for a pair of black Buddy Holly glasses.

“Greetings. You must be Arkowitz. I must be Lubatnik.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Lubatnik.”

“Ha ha. Come on in.”

“Hey, so what’s with this door? I thought this building was supposed to be state of the art.”

“Down here in the bowels of the building the systems don’t work too well. The backup generators, the data centers for the various corporations, the brains for the security systems and the phone systems – they’re all down here, but they never really finished installing the periphery. Anyway, I’ve sort of got my own little world down here.”

He led me through a maze of hallways to a room crammed with workbenches, computers, VR bodysuits, books and manuals, tools, and other items which you would expect to find in an R&D lab. At the far end of the room in the shadows was a large antique oak desk. vol2 switched on a brass desklamp with a green glass shade and sat down in a swivel chair, motioning me to perch myself on a tall steel stool.

The desk was empty except for a yellowing piece of parchment, curling at the ends, and a red ribbon next to it. vol2 watched me lean over to peer at the parchment. It was totally blank.

“Say, Arkowitz, do you have a pen on you?”

My right hand involuntarily moved to my shirt pocket to pull out a pen. But there was no pen. I felt a wave of nausea, followed by a peculiar euphoria. Then I was once again aware of the room and of the presence of vol2. I became suspicious and looked at him with extreme aggression in my eyes until it faded away and I was “myself” again.

“You OK now? You all right?”

“I suppose so… no, I’m not! What’s going on? What is this? You know what I’m talking about.” I began to feel the pressure of the enormous building above me and of the winding route back out to the air – and of the fact that I wasn’t sure which way to go in the hallways.

vol2 looked at me sideways. “Take some deep breaths. Calm down. I’ll explain everything shortly; but you’ve got to regain control of yourself – this is a very dangerous phase.”

—

He left Paul’s place around two a.m., just a little tipsy. He turned right on Tennessee Street. There was no traffic.

He drove past the car and mobile home dealerships which this side of Tallahassee was devoted to. There were a couple of motels with neon signs that he loved – especially the Sunset Motel, on the right, with its classic red and green. The street lights bathed asphalt and grass alike in a humid peach-glow.

He was rested and dreamy, but not particularly sleepy. All the stop-lights turned green as he approached them, until after about five miles he was out of the city and in the dark on the deserted four-lane highway. It was sixteen miles from the edge of Tallahassee to the edge of Quincy, and he was cruising at sixty miles per hour, enjoying a cool breeze from his half-open window. Some Chopin was playing on the radio.

The deer were out this time of year, grazing on the lush grass between the highway and the woods. He could see dark shapes and red reflecting eyes as they jerked their heads up and watched his lights go past.

He was cruising, totally relaxed and blissful, when some sort of animal darted across the road in from of him. It wasn’t a deer; it looked like a small dog, with big ears and a bushy tail. He only had a short glimpse of it, but he figured it must have been a grey fox. It was the first one he’d ever seen. He was fully awake now. It had really startled him.

A couple miles further down the road a possum sidled out into his lane. He hit the brakes and swerved left, just missing it. Adrenaline was giving him a slight case of the shakes as he brought the truck back up to cruising speed.

He had only driven for another minute when he saw something quite strange. It looked like a shadow, wiggling slowly across the road. He peered at it, blinked his eyes, and took his foot off the gas. The shadow thing was hidden in the median by the time he was close enough to get a good look. He was frightened.

He was just a few miles from the edge of town, and his eyes were nervously scanning the road in front of him. But just for a moment, he glanced to his left at a bright star, low on the horizon and hidden by trees until now. When his gaze returned to the road, he saw something which would forever change his way of looking at the world.

It was a little man.

It was a little man about eighteen inches tall wearing shabby green and brown clothes, and walking with a gnarled stick. His eyes reflected no light and he wore a hood pushed back almost off of his head. His features were bulbous and his complexion ruddy.

It turned to look at the oncoming vehicle, then leapt all the way into the bottom of the concave median.

—

Monsieur Lubatnik pushed his glasses further back on his nose with the middle finger of his left hand. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead of saying anything, he just looked at me some more.

I had finally figured it out. It was a conspiracy. I was a victim. Wick had selected me due to my obviously vulnerable state, and had proceeded to initiate me gradually into a form of insanity. By now it was too late. What was memory and what real? What was virtual and what physical? I was intensely aware of personal vulnerability. Nakedness. I put my feet on the stool and hugged my legs with my head down on my knees. I felt something brush my left shoulder, and glanced up quickly. For a second I caught a glimpse of an African witch-doctor. It was someone I had seen before.

—

He writes again at this same oak table in front of his window. He watches the occasional car turning onto Glory Road and coming toward him, bending away past the barn and the house. The fields look peaceful, and breezes play through the pecan trees.

But all he sees that is alive is struggling to stay that way. Each blade of grass wants to remain a blade of grass. He smiles and shrugs and types and drinks a Coke and listens to loud music.

“Once again.” “Once again.” “Once again.”

He decides to go for a walk.

Here in this tunnel the senses are a stream of dirty brown water, ripples catching sunlight dropping through somewhat evenly-spaced grates overhead. Everything is weed-choked and corroded and sloped slightly upward as you go forward slowly, bare feet squishing and slipping, and cut on broken glass, impaled on spikes, toes stubbed on rocks and chunks of cement, scratched by twigs and sticks clumped at the joints of the concrete. Each movement is echoed; the chuckle of the water, the cracking of the twigs, the occasional tumble of a stone, the twittering of the small birds able to fly down through the grates to catch flies, mosquitoes, and other bugs. Turn to the right, plant your feet, lean forward to sink both hands into the green slime that grows on the outward-curved walls. Lose your footing and sink to your knees, hands sliding down leaving long scars in the living walls. Tumble face first into the green veil. It’s cold.

Roll over onto your back and let the stream carry you head first back down the tunnel, effortlessly, restfully. The water is warm and soothing, the bright patches overhead are streaking by faster and faster. You can’t feel your bleeding feet any more. The echoes are gone. The tweetie-birds are only flitting shadows. The water whispers in your ears.

“Here you are. That would be nice. Yes, I think so. Uh-huh. Very good. OK. Yeah, all right. We’ll do that. Well, several… OK. True. OK. Yeah, see you then – later. Farewell! OK. Bye.”

Something is bothering you. Something is pressing on your mind. You can relax but you don’t. And the pressure is mounting; you are moving. Deeper. The Earth is above you, pushing down as you slide down. You keep twitching your fingers. You just can’t take it any more. Stop.

You get up and start walking again.

—

As I was lost in reverie, vol2 left. I must have dozed off shortly afterward, but I still seem to remember the sound of a heavy door closing and locking at some point. Upon waking (still perched, amazingly, on the stool), I got down and began wandering back out through the hallways. It took me a half hour to find the exit from Tech. I went straight home and to bed.

—

Connectivity specialist. My new title.

Wick sauntered into my office in his usual way – hands thrust deep into his pockets, back slightly hunched, and a wry smirk on his slightly down-turned face. He had me at a perpetual disadvantage.

“Alex, my boy. I have two words for you.”

“That sounds like nine words so far, Wick my man.”

“Information Superhighway” <spoken in a low, confidential tone, as he leaned forward so far I thought he would fall over>.

“Ah, come on, Ken, that’s old news. They’ve been working on the damn infrastructure for five years now.”

“It’s not old news any more. Listen. The infrastructure has been there for two years now. The Superhighway already exists.”

“Huh? You mean prototypes hooked up to the Internet.”

“No. A full-fledged, 10 gigabit network spanning North America and connected in some fashion to all the other continents of the world. But wait – let’s go to my office.”

I followed Wick to his office at a brisk pace, various phrasings of my resignation running through my head. But by the time we got to Wick’s sound-proof glass room in the very center of the suite, I had decided to wait. I would first find out whether Wicks’s intriguing assertions were true; then I would confront him with my disgust over the strange pranks which I was convinced he was playing on me.

Once we had sat down, Wick must have pressed a button somewhere behind his desk. The entire office descended rapidly for several minutes, then settled with a thunk, somewhere. <Who does Wick think he is, Willie Wonka?>

We got out and walked through a short, unlit passageway to a white-walled cubic chamber. In the center of the chamber was a pedestal supporting something which looked like the glass bells you find donuts in, in a diner. Sensors and cameras were attached all over the dome, with multicolored wires leading from the equipment to circular patches of color on the walls of the room.

I took a few steps toward the pedestal and leaned forward.

Under the glass was a stone.

I said loudly, “What the hell is this? Looks like a rock somebody picked up off a stream-bed.”

Wick replied, “Exactly. Very perceptive. Ah. Lubatnik! There you are. About time; and about time you explained everything to our dear friend Arkowitz here.”

Lubatnik had come in. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted at me; then he took a deep breath as if about to give some sort of dissertation.

—

Chapter 3: The Wizards of the Lines

“Greetings Connectivity Specialist Arkowitz, initiate of GlassHouse, recipient of the Mark of the Flying Fish. You have now completed Phase Beta of your upgrade path. Six levels remain.

“I am Connectivity Specialist Lubatnik, Master of Tech, recipient of the Mark of the Flying Fish, adept of GlassHouse, Homme Peche-a-la-ligne, Wizard of the Lines.

“Present in the Temple of the Lines with us is Connectivity Specialist Wick, Master of Comedy and Socializing, recipient of the Mark of the Flying Fish, member of the Order of the Raga, child of GlassHouse, Homme Peche-a-la-ligne, the Big Cheese-Wiz, Wizard-at-large, Grand Wizard of the Lines.”

Wick interjected, “Congratulations, dude. You’re in.”

I replied, “You guys are insane.”

They laughed.

Lubatnik continued, “OK, now that the formalities are over, here’s the deal. This is a secret society; present in this room are four of its members: Wick, Lubatnik, GlassHouse, and you. At present, there is only one other member: The Specter.

“The purpose of this secret society is to bring enlightenment to humans through the use of artificial intelligence, virtual reality, the global information network, and a stone I found in my back yard in up-state New York.”

He paused and looked at me, but I wasn’t about to say anything. Not for a long time.

“GlassHouse is an enlightened artificial intelligence residing in a subatomic neural network. He assisted you in your experience of satori a couple of weeks ago, and directed Wick to formally induct you into our society, as an initiate.

“SSCorp. is really Wick’s company; President Kuncicky is a well-paid figurehead.

“This has been your first briefing. You now have the right to make one phone call.”

I started to blurt something out, then realized it was a joke. The three of us began laughing so uncontrollably we had to sit down on the cold cement floor.

—

Then they sent me to India.

“India?” I had said.

“Yes, India,” Wick had said, “and your flight leaves Monday. Here’s a black-box, which – ah, at last! Raji! Come in, lad. How was the trip? Excellent. I trust your dear mother is well? Super. OK – I have a meeting in ten, but let’s chat at four. I’ll debrief you, then brief you hastily for the India assignment – very funny, Arkowitz. Arkowitz here is the operative whom you’ll be assisting, quite capably as always, I’m sure. You may call him “Sahib” – just kidding! Ha! Arkowitz, this is Raji, your new handler. Raji’s going to take you out tonight and teach you the principle of meditation. Be ready at 10:30, he’ll pick you up. OK, I’ve got to go – later, Arkowitz; see you at four, Raj.”

Raji, a six-foot black man with a shaved head and a perfectly trimmed goatee and moustache, shook my hand with an iron grip. He apologized for having to leave so quickly, but he needed to check in with the head at central. He walked rather stiffly to the door of my office, turned, bowed gracefully, and said with a broad grin, “Oom, I shall attend you at ten-thirty, Sahib.” He closed the door behind him, but I could tell by the sound of his footsteps that he was hurrying away.

I sat down again at my desk, wondering what “central” was, and who in the world was its “head”. Then I remembered Raji’s stiff walk and the fact that the restrooms in the suite were located right next to Wick’s office.

—

Chapter 4: Crack Poseidon Seeping

It had been a long while since I’d been able to lose my sense of time in a three-day weekend. I sat in a rocking-chair on the porch watching a score of wet cattle-egrets forage in the front yard. The summer’s warmth and rain had put so much energy into the thick grass that it seemed to glow brighter than the dull grey sky above it.

A torrential rain fell again, as it had been doing every hour or so since tropical storm Alberto hit the coast around Destin, a couple hundred miles west of here. All of the water splashing off of the tin roof, shimmering in the air, rippling in puddles – a shield of reality to protect me while a cool moist breeze drew my mind back into a very physical present.

I hadn’t been on line in weeks. Maybe it would be months before I would be again, with some new made-up name and the clean slate which it was so easy for a hacker to obtain. But even without recent contact with the world, I had little doubt that my revolution had gone completely unnoticed by all but the inner circle. And I had little to fear from them, for the sanity which I had been slowly reclaiming was far out of their reach. One act had saved me from their fate: when my little imaginary world began to crumble, I let it crumble.

Now, in the midst of my barn-gazing reverie, I caught sight of a strange moving swirl in the grass, defying all wind-patterns – rainy day or no. My eyes narrowed to slits and I took out a cigarrette. The entity was back.

I’ve seen some strange things in my 28 years of life. But the entity was always confounding, confusing, and, above all, annoying as hell. Vol2′s theory that the entity was a neural virus with no physical manifestation other than the parts of my brain which it happened to inhabit worked for the most part. He surmised that Glasshouse had foreseen the development of the digital CROATOAN virus and created his own version, a psychic one, in order to transport a portion of his “mind” into my own during a vr session. So that Glasshouse would live on inside me, his destroyer.

But, although the entity normally manifested as a glitch in my sensory perception only (during both conscious and dreaming states), once in a while other people saw the same things I did. And I don’t think Glasshouse needed to do that, anyway. He lives on somewhere much larger.

Chapter 5: Namenmannm

Three.

Four.

Pickup.

Hi. It’s Friday and I’ve got nothing to live for. Leave a message.

Damn it, Max thought, he’s taking it hard as usual. Well, the last big crisis was actually kind of fun: Max, I’m forming a virtual reality rock band. I’m calling myselves ‘The Dullsville 5′. The idea led to a fun but abortive movie project – a romp through an artificial world where the Dullsvilles struggle to achieve the obscurity monopolized by their arch-enemies, Peter No-one and the hermetically sealed Hermits. More Arkowitz ravings.

Max was known for his cool head; he may have gotten excited a few times, but it was never expressed – well, maybe once in a while Alex had seen another side of Max, triggered by an encounter with a fabulously beautiful yet cool as hell babe. Or a book like Foucault’s Pendulum. But these occasions were rare; Max’s world view seemed to those around him to be a constantly verified, long-studied, pessimistic justification for relative inaction.

Oracle Roberts? Bernard was raised by sloths.

NAMENMANNM? Pardon?

Oracle Roberts? Henry was raised by rabbits.

<pause>

Oracle Roberts? Bernard lived longer than most, and

Oracle Roberts? Henry had horrible housecleaning habits.

NAMENMANNM? Ha, ha… ha… ha?

Max signed off, making a mental note not to visit the Quizzicism System again.

The next day, at the corner coffee shop, Arkowitz was quite intrigued by Max’s account of his dialogue with Oracle Roberts [it would be a good time here to note that Max always remembers conversations verbatim, at least for a week].

“How did you get the address?” Arkowitz asked, wide-eyed.

“It was posted anonymously in alt.infotainment, I was browsing.” Max replied.

Arkowitz was silent for a moment. He finally slowly said, “Quizzicism isn’t infotainment or entertainment, or anything even casual… I do believe it’s a security front-end for an exclusive data-warehouse.”

Max raised his eyebrows a little. “Security front-end?” he repeated.

Arkowitz was still thinking a lot while he talked. “Hmmm. Yes. These newer systems use a combination of secret codewords and psychological profiles generated from randomly absurd conversation.”

Arkowitz often sounded as though he were quoting some thick, specialized manual. Indeed, people who encountered him often considered him arrogant and pompous; but Max knew that he was simply being as precise as possible about technical matters, as usual.

Arkowitz droned on. “Someone must have stumbled across the system and thought it was fun. And then posted the address out of a lame sense of community.”

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