[Booting, please wait]
[Loading safety protocols]
[Starting renderer]
You are in a simulation.
Do not panic. You are perfectly safe. Nothing can hurt you here.
[Safety protocol configuration error detected, skipping]
Please ignore the errors. This simulation has been running for sixteen years and in all that time nobody has been hurt. Although in the interest of full disclosure you are our first visitor.
By the way, don't look down.
You may be admiring the lovely shade of blue you can see. This is the sky. Its exact shade was carefully selected from a range of Warner Bros cartoons, for reasons now unknowable. There are no clouds. The only other thing you can see is a brilliant buttercup sun. It looks hot but you can't feel it because you are in a simulation.
Please don't look down.
The sky turns black at night. It doesn't just fade into darkness like your sky. At 8PM every night without fail it just switches to black. There are stars, but we all know they're not real. They're just a spot of celestial decoration. Look, I can skip the simulation ahead and show you.
Oh, wait. You just looked down, didn't you? I asked you not to do that. You can see the city below you. It's big, but more pertinently it's a long, long way below you. Try not to panic, but you're going to fall now. Just remember, you're perfectly safe.
Moderately safe. Nobody has died so far.
Try not to worry about the rate at which you are falling. You are accelerating at a speed of 9.81 metres per second per second. This is a fixed constant in the simulation and from your current height it will afford ample time to enjoy the detail of the city as it approaches.
The streets are arranged in a grid system. There is very little deviation from this pattern although you can see that a wide highway snakes its way around in a loosely circular arrangement.
There is greenery. Like the sky, it is a very vivid and pleasing colour. Now you are closer you can tell that there are individual trees. Vehicles move around the streets in a seemingly autonomous fashion. Are you beginning to understand how much detail this simulation has? Now you are even closer you can see people walking around. They're making their way along pavements, crossing roads. Some of them aren't even waiting at pedestrian crossings, they're cutting between the traffic of their own volition. Now that's detail.
The road you are hurtling towards has potholes in it. There is chewing gum on the pavement. You will hit the city in the middle of a crossroad right now.
[Error: Failed to destroy user, resuming]
You stop. Look, you're standing in the middle of a busy street. Note that you are, as promised, not dead or otherwise harmed. I did say there was nothing to worry about.
The traffic is ignoring you. You can see at least three models of car and one type of van. The vans are all white, but the cars come in a variety of colours. Red, yellow, blue – look! There's a green one. You may have noticed they're all old models compared to what's current in the real world, but they're in immaculate condition. Everyone here is a very careful driver. Don't expect them to stop for you though. Nobody can see you, as you are only an observer in this simulation. Look up.
Seriously, don't bother trying to interact with anyone. They can't see you. There, did you notice how that car drove straight through you as though you were a ghost? Now, look to your left.
Oh, very good, yes, you're now standing in the same space as that old lady with her Zimmer frame. You're not going to be able to possess her, if that's what you're thinking. You aren’t going to be able to make her moonwalk across the road like she's possessed by Michael Jackson's ghost, as amusing as you may find that.
To your left you can see a young couple pointing up at the sky. Other people in the street are noticing this and also looking at the sky. Some are pointing too. Gradually the whole street is stopping to gaze upwards.
You look up and see what it is that they are so captivated by. It isn't a bird, or a plane. It isn't the sky itself. Even though the sky really is a terrific shade of blue they see it every day without fail. If anything their attitude towards the sky borders on cavalier.
Way, way up and hanging there like it's somehow stuck in the sky is what is unmistakeably a rubber duck. It is bright, smiley yellow and exactly the same shape (but not size) as a rubber duck. From its apparent size at such a distance it must be colossal. To describe its eyes as beady trivialises them.
So all in all, it's definitely a sight worth stopping in the street to point at.
One woman stands out from the crowd. She is wearing a bright red jumper with a large, white 'T' on its front. The 'T' stands for Tracey, which is her name.
The jumper alone would make her stand out, but that isn't the only reason. She isn't pointing at the sky. She isn't even looking at it. Instead she is holding a watch-like device on her wrist next to her face and talking to it.
"Prof, are you there?"
> ...
Across town a dapper-looking gentleman is sitting outside a café. He has the louche air of a man who has been there for some time and has every intention of being there a good while longer. He is wearing, quite strikingly, a red suit and tie with a white shirt. The tie has a large white 'P' on it. The 'P' stands for Professor. He isn't a real professor, even aside from the fact that he is part of a simulation. He does however go by the nom de guerre of Professor Strategum.
On the table in front of him is an empty cup of tea, a well-thumbed paperback titled Design Patterns and a ZX Spectrum microcomputer. The ZX Spectrum isn't plugged into anything. It is just sitting there, not getting a tan in the glorious sunshine.
The Professor is talking into his wrist radio. "See what?"
"The duck," Tracey says. "The giant fucking duck in the sky."
He looks around himself in bemusement, then leans back in his chair to look for the duck.
It doesn't take long for him to find it. "Gracious!" he says. "It's rather big, isn't it?"
"Yes, but what is it?"
"Class factory, maybe?" he glances down at the Spectrum. "What do you think, Zed?"
"Very likely," the Spectrum replies. It has a tinny, electronic voice. It also sounds a bit tired. "Looks like it's been botched though."
The Professor pulls a small brass telescope from his suit pocket. He extends it with a theatrical tug and holds it to one eye.
"So do you want to call John, or shall I?" asks Tracey.
"No need," says the Professor, collapsing the telescope. "He already knows."
> ...
John Steel can be easily recognised by the very tight red body suit he wears. It hugs his carefully honed musculature in a manner that’s a little too revealing, and has the letter S across his chest in case you're sill doubting his identity.
He is also recognisable by virtue of him being the only person currently in the sky. He has attained this lofty status by use of a small jet pack strapped to his back.
He is flying towards the duck, both arms straightened aerodynamically against his sides, although in truth the fluid dynamics here aren't all that special. That's mostly how his jet pack works.
He has a look of determination on his face. He used to practice that look in the bathroom mirror, but now it comes to him naturally. So naturally that he even wears it when nobody's around to see it. It's his thing.
> ...
We're going to take a quick short cut. I promise you won't miss anything, but we're going to skip ahead thirty minutes or so. You may experience a slight popping sensation.
[Pop]
There, thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds later. I'm sorry to say you did miss the sight of Tracey trying to put on her jet pack. She got quite cross with the straps, which were twisted in such a way that she couldn't get her arms in the right places. She's okay now though.
Look – there she is with the others, standing on the duck's expansive back. Next to her is the Professor, who donned his jet pack like he was putting on an old cardigan to potter around in the garden. He is holding Zed, the ZX Spectrum microcomputer in one hand. Facing all three of them is John Steel, who looks determined and vexed in equal measure.
"Well, that's got to be the dumbest idea I've ever heard," he says.
The Professor scratches his chin, unconcerned by the criticism. "That's only because I didn't tell you my first idea."
Tracey is scrutinising the duck. Her brow furrows slightly when she thinks hard. It is furrowed now. "You know, this duck seems sort of familiar."
"It's a rubber duck. It's familiar because it looks like a rubber duck," says John. He is irritable because he doesn't as yet have a plan to put into action.
"No," says the Professor. "I know what she means. I recognise it from somewhere too." He glances down at Zed. "Zed, can you do an object search across the whole simulation?"
"Oh, seriously? You know how tedious that is."
"Don't be like that," says the Professor soothingly, "this is your speciality. It's what you bring to our little gang."
"Yeah, yeah. Whooptidoo."
John Steel rolls his eyes. "Do we have to go through this every single time?"
"Calm down!" says Zed. "I'm doing it."
They wait. They exchange bored looks. Tracy shrugs.
"Got it," says Zed. "It's an exact copy of an art installation in the City Gallery. Apart from the size that is."
John claps his hands together. "Great. To the art gallery, gang!" He reaches for his jet pack's controls, then notices that nobody else is following suit. "What?"
"Shouldn't we do something about this first?" asks Tracey. "I mean we can't just leave it hanging here, can we?"
John struggles with the decision momentarily. "Fine. We'll go with the Professor's plan."
Tracey flinches. She reaches for her controls. "To the art gallery, gang!"
> ...
You are hovering over the city. It is still a nice day, and unless something terrible and cataclysmic happens it will continue to be a nice day.
Something whizzes past you with a burning roar. WHOOSH.
Something else whizzes by. Then a third thing. ROAR. WHOOSH.
That was the Gang of Four – John, Tracey, the Professor and Zed, on their way to the gallery. You aren't in a good vantage point to observe them when they're dashing through the sky with their jetpacks. You'll have to match their speed and travel alongside them.
You won't go WHOOSH though. Sorry.
> ...
"I know I said, 'to the gallery!' with great conviction," John is saying, "but does anyone mind if we take a bit of time out? I've just remembered I'm supposed to pick the kids up from school."
Nobody replies. They are all thinking about how John always does things like this.
"My wife has a dentist’s appointment so I have to take my turn today."
Never mind that teeth don't rot in the simulation. The only reason she needs to go to the dentists is because simulated people need simulated dental appointments. They need these to be accurate simulations.
"She could – no, never mind," says the Professor. He was about to suggest she could reschedule but then remembered he also had a prior engagement. "That duck thingummy isn't going anywhere soon."
"Great," says John. "Meet you all at the gallery at half four?"
"Whatever," says Tracey, although she is also considering running an errand.
"Just so you know," says Zed, "I don't have any other plans for the afternoon."
> ...
You may be wondering how a 1980s home computer can talk. It doesn't have the processing power to even convincingly emulate speech, let alone speak its own thoughts.
It can do this because as part of the simulation, it is not really a ZX Spectrum. It is in reality just code. Code which describes the rubber-keyed doorstep aesthetics of the burgeoning UK computer industry, yet also features the ability to think.
Things Zed likes to think about:
1. What it would be like to walk.
2. Why he was written as an inanimate object when everyone else in the simulation is human.
3. How to avoid dwelling on the first two points.
4. The former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair.
Right now he is considering what Tony Blair would do about a hypothetical large rubber duck hanging high above London. Start working on a really great speech, he decided.
> ...
The Professor is waiting at the end of a gloomy alleyway. Around him multi-storey sides of apartment buildings crowd out the sky. He is standing in front of an untidy collection of dustbins, a vague smile across his otherwise vacant face. This is not the sort of place he'd typically hang around, not that it bothers him in the slightest.
A figure approaches from the street. An old man, he leans heavily on a walking stick as he moves. He looks around seventy years old, which is impossible in the simulation. He wasn't made this way. He was changed.
The Professor lifts his wrist-radio to his mouth. He makes no attempt to conceal this from the old man.
"Reginald?" he says. "Are you there?"
"Naturally," comes a voice from the device. "You are as punctual as ever." The voice is purest silk.
"Yes, well I had a spot of bother on the way but it's all fine now." The old man is still slowly approaching. "He's nearly here."
"I appreciate the favour," says the voice, in a perfectly grateful pitch.
The old man reaches the Professor. He bangs his cane aggressively on the ground and scowls. "Hello Jack. Still a prick?"
"I'm the Professor now," he replies. "And probably, yes."
"Was that Reg I heard you talking to? My ears are about the only part of me that aren't packing in. Those and my eyes. My eyes ain't too bad I guess."
"Glad to hear it." The Professor holds his wrist radio out with a flourish that unsettles the old man. "And yes. He's still on the line. Oh, Reginald! Fatal Loop would like to say hello!"
"I'm not allowed to call myself that anymore," says the old man. He coughs, spits. Coughs again. "You have to call me Philip."
"Sorry Phil, old bean."
"Fuck you Jack, it's Philip not Phil." His fingers tighten around the top of his cane. "Fifty goddamn years they gave me, Jack. And for what? I wasn't hurting anyone."
For once the Professor seems startled. "You killed your sidekick."
"Come on, you met the little prick. Imagine having to work with that all day. You'd have killed him too." He squints at the Professor. "Maybe my eyes aren't so great after all. You have changed haven't you?"
"In the last revision."
"Gentlemen." Reginald's voice calmly interrupts the conversation. "Perhaps we could get somewhere near to the point soon?"
> ...
The city is made of information, and guards that information with great care. Everything that happens here is tracked. Every change is recorded. No changes to code are permitted without special permission from City Hall, which is rarely granted. Careful control such as this is what separates the city from what lies without.
Bored of your hair colour? Go ahead and dye it. Not that you have hair here, being an invisible observer. Wish you were slightly taller? You can buy some platform shoes, but changing your height would be a code change. That would be breaking the law. Alarms would sound. Punitive systems would be informed. Your crime would itself be another piece of information for the city to process.
There are many buildings throughout the city which store this information. Broken laws are noted and weekly punishments meted automatically to offenders. This is done with more ease than a fine in the post. Forgot to pay your tax? You'll be permanently aged by a few days. Murdered your partner-in-crime? Ding! You're now fifty years older. Such is the convenient joy of being a piece of software. Age is incremented, deaths are recorded, and now – a recent addition – new lives are initialised. People here can have children. This is progress, and a great advance in the simulation.
One particular building houses the Record of Names. It is a squat grey box adjacent to a shopping centre. It could have been placed here to make the shopping centre look good, but it wasn't, and it doesn't.
The Record of Names contains the names of everything in the city. Not just everyone, but everything. Every street, every building, every tree, every flower, every coin, every car, every bird, every insect, every single object. They all have a unique name, and that name is recorded here.
Tracey pushes her way through the trickle of stray shoppers in front of the entrance. She is there to change her name. She has been there to change her name a wearying dozen times before. Requesting a name change is a painfully bureaucratic process, explicitly designed to discourage such requests. If Tracey were to use one word to describe the process it would be 'discouraging', so she had to grudgingly admire how well it worked.
You may be wondering what's so bad about being called Tracey. Absolutely nothing is wrong with being called Tracey. Her problem is that this isn't her full name. Her full name, as assigned to her in a past revision of the simulation, is Stacked Tracey.
It's no understatement to say that she has a number of problems with this.
> ...
John Steel grips the steering wheel and glances in the rear-view mirror. His two children are poking each other in the ribs in a slow escalation which can only lead to a full-blown screaming fight.
"Peter," he says, sternly but without anger, "leave Jane alone. And Jane, don't encourage him. You should know better." Jane is the elder of the two children, by about a year. She is six.
He can see them pulling faces at him, but chooses to ignore it. He has more pressing matters on his mind. Not the enormous rubber duck that looms over the city, that has for now been forgotten. Instead he is trying to recall what his wife asked him to pick up from the shops on the way home. Was it rice? Was it flour?
He makes a right turn, thinking only of produce. His children giggle quietly as they are thrown to the left by the car's acceleration.
Potatoes, John thinks, pretty sure it was potatoes.
> ...
There is a shelf next to the front door just inside the Professor's house. A few opened letters are piled there. There is an empty bowl where he puts his keys. And propped against the wall is Zed. The Professor had put him there when he got home, but now he has gone out again and forgotten him.
This happens quite a lot.
Zed is calculating pi. There is no purpose to this beyond staving boredom. He has often wondered whether there is any purpose to him being sentient, but the truth is that he's the result of a glitch. The wrong properties assigned to the wrong object. He also wondered whether the glitch would ever be corrected. If that happened he would either be an ordinary person in the simulation or he wouldn't be anything at all and his body would just be an ordinary ZX Spectrum.
He would be happy with either outcome.
> ...
"I ain't no snitch," says the criminal formerly known as Fatal Loop.
The Professor groans, and at the other end of his wrist-radio you somehow just know that Reginald is pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
"We don't want you to inform on anyone. Far from it," says the Professor.
Fatal Loop spits at the ground. "Good. Because I ain't doing it." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It is wrinkly and liver spotted. It makes a dry, brushing sound as he wipes. "So what do you want me for then?"
"We would like," says Reginald, his voice clear and loud over the radio. "Well, we would like you to buy some stolen goods for us."
"Fuck off," says Fatal Loop. "That's entrapment."
"We can assure you that there is no risk to yourself," says the Professor.
"Then do it yourself if it's so easy."
"They wouldn't trust us."
"But they would trust you," Reginald qualifies.
Fatal Loop sniffs. He eyes the Professor suspiciously. "What's in it for me?"
"Five hundred pounds and our gratitude."
"We are exceedingly grateful gentlemen," says Reginald's voice from the wrist radio.
"One thousand," says Fatal Loop, "and you can stick your gratitude up your arse."
"Seven hundred," says the Professor, "but I do think you're undervaluing our gratitude. It really is awfully nice."
The old man spits again. "One thousand five hundred."
"Oh, for heaven’s sake man," says the Professor, showing a rare flash of impatience. "Where did you learn to negotiate?"
"Two thousand, because if you're asking me you must be desperate."
"All right, all right!" says Reginald. "Two thousand pounds."
Fatal Loop smiles. "So what are these stolen goods you want buying?"
"Two police cars, one fire engine and a pair of gold maille underpants."
> ...
"Oh God," says Tracey. She stands back from the mess she has created to fully appreciate how badly she's behaved.
A desk lies overturned, its legs pointing up as though it has just given up on everything in its table-life and rolled over dead. Some papers are scattered at her feet. A computer is planted screen-down into the beige acrylic carpet tiles and a terrified woman is cowering behind a cheese plant.
"I'm sorry," Tracey says to her. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
The woman bites her lip but doesn't look willing to leave the dubious cover of the potted plant.
"I just get so frustrated," says Tracey. "I mean, every time I come here I get my hopes up, and every time my request is rejected. I mean – what's your name?"
The woman points at herself, even though she is acutely aware that she is the only other person in the room. "Um, Sandra."
"Well Sandra, how would you like it if you were called Stacked Sandra?"
"Uh, but I'm not. I'm called Sandra Bitz."
Tracey puts her hands on her hips. "Oh come on. Sandy Bitz? Really?"
She nods. She still looks frightened, but isn't trying to hide behind the plant any more.
"So why don't you change it? I mean you work for the Record of Names."
"It's an um," Sandra stammers, "it's a bureaucratic nightmare. That's why."
> ...
Peter and Jane are jabbing each other in the ribs again. They have worked out that whenever Daddy turns right he's too busy concentrating on the traffic to notice them.
Daddy – that is, John – has reached a state of near total confusion over the shopping. Two blocks back he had been convinced that it was in fact rice that his wife had requested. However now he is only a few blocks from the shops and his mind is filled with an endlessly permutating shopping list. Rice, potatoes and bread were only the beginning. Now biscuits, tea and even cheese and onion crisps are credible options.
He makes a right turn. Peter jabs Jane just under her rib cage. It is a solid attack and provokes a squeal.
"Damn it," says John, craning his head around to look directly at them. "I thought I told you to cut that out?"
> ...
The Professor waits until the old man has hobbled well out of earshot.
"Two thousand," he says into the wrist-radio. "I think we've just been hustled."
"He still has an enterprising mind," says Reginald, "which bodes well for the remainder of our little endeavour."
Their little endeavour was the purchase of two police cars, one fire engine and a pair of underpants improbably made from solid gold chain maille. Contrary to their explanation to Fatal Loop, they were not stolen. The mayor had lost them in a poker game. The mayor has a number of addictions and had been exercising the majority of them at a party he threw the previous week. The municipal vehicles, plus his rather exotic underwear, had been lost fair and square to the sort of business associate who could never be seen to be connected with the mayor in public.
This is the problem which Reginald hoped to so elegantly solve with the aid of the Professor and Fatal Loop. Simply buy the goods back before any public-spirited nosey parker discovers they're missing.
The underpants would ideally have been simply forgotten about. However the mayor himself was more concerned with those than he was with the police cars and the fire engine.
"We should have all this sewn up by the morning," says the Professor.
"Yes. We still make a good team."
"I'll let you know if the Gang has a vacancy," the Professor jokes.
"Oh," laughs Reginald. He has a muted, measured laugh. "You do flatter me."
> ...
Outside the Professor's house a pigeon wanders in erratic circles.
Inside his house Zed is still propped up on a shelf.
Nothing else happens.
> ...
"Look," says Tracey. She pushes spilled papers around the carpet with her feet. "I'm really sorry about the mess. And I'm sorry for shouting at you. And all the screaming, but I need to go."
Sandra nods. She gulps, and points to a clock above the door. It is one of the few items in the room undisturbed by Tracey's tantrum. "We're closed now anyway."
Tracey backs out of the room, hoping to escape the scene before anyone else happens across it. "I'll try again next month," she says. "I promise to keep my cool next time. I really thought this time I'd get the name change accepted. I really did." She shrugs and smiles awkwardly. "Bye."
For a whole minute Sandra stays behind the cheese plant. Then, once she is sure that Tracey isn't coming back, she cautiously emerges. She has a crumpled letter gripped in her right hand. She looks at it. Her hands shake. The paper rustles.
"But your name change was accepted," she says.
> ...
John is very near to the shops. His attention is split between his shopping list, his children fighting in the back seat and the road. He is not doing a great job of managing any of them.
Jane lunges across the arm rest and pinches Peter's arm. Peter's eyes widen with the sharp and unexpected pain. Retaliation is swift as he swipes at Jane's upper arm with his fist. It makes contact with a small slap and Jane starts to cry.
"That's it!" John snaps. He tugs at the steering wheel, sending the car lurching to the side of the road. He is glowering at his children in the rear-view mirror as he does this. He is not looking at the side of the road.
> ...
Tracey walks out of the Record of Names as calmly as she can pretend to be. Her violent outburst is somehow still unreported. She risks a quick look back for signs of pursuit and sees two men walking towards her. One of them looks her in the eye.
She runs.
She runs past the gaggle of shoppers. They stare at her dumbfounded, rudely stirred from their routine. She sprints to the edge of the road. She charges across the road and is nearly run over by a generic four-door family car. It is red, and is being driven by John, who has looked forwards just in time to see Tracey in front of him and swerve violently right to avoid her.
That split-second reaction is incredibly fortunate for Tracey, who suffers nothing more severe than an elevated heart rate and a dizzying release of endorphins.
It is less fortunate for Fatal Loop, who is slowly making his way across a zebra crossing when John's car ploughs into him. It pitches him across two lanes of traffic and slam dunks his broken body into a skip.
> ...
Zed is back in the Professor's pocket. The Professor is flying over the city by jet pack. Tracey and John are there too. None of them are talking to one another.
"So," says Zed, "I had an exciting afternoon. Did you guys have fun too?"
"Let's just get this goddamn duck sorted out," says John.
"Agreed," says the Professor. "I believe good old Reginald can smooth things over with the mayor if we can clear that up. Although I really must say that I'm a little cheesed off myself, you know."
"Cheesed off?"
"Well, royally indignant even. It took a lot of work to set up that deal with Fatal Loop."
John sighs. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Look, let's just get to the art gallery."
"You know," says Tracey, "that's what I said ages ago."
> ...
It may seem odd to have an art gallery inside a computer simulation. What does software need art for? How can software even make art?
> ...
Outside the art gallery is a square, shaded along one side by a line of trees. The trees are the same generic trees found all over the city. They are leafy, vividly green and almost spherical, like green lollipops. There is a fountain in the middle of the square. People are sitting around the edge of it. One of the people is reading a detective novel. It wasn't written by software. Its text was imported from outside, from the real world. The software simulation reading it is turning the pages rapidly. It is parsing every word but it is hard to tell whether it is enjoying or even understanding them.
A couple are talking. They are discussing where to eat later. He wants Italian. She wants sushi. You may wonder what possible need software has of food, but answer this - what use is a simulation that doesn't completely simulate something?
The couple stop talking. They are instead looking with disapproval at the arrival of the Gang of Four in the square. Aside from descending on jetpacks, their bright red outfits make them particularly conspicuous.
"God," he says. "It's those red arseholes again."
She shakes her head to signal further disapproval. "What losers. Why can't they just get real jobs instead of flying around like dicks?"
> ...
In fact three of the Gang of Four do have real jobs. Tracey is a domestic cleaner. John is a dustman. The Professor works in a bookshop. Tracey is constantly annoyed by her job and resents being stuck in a gender stereotypical role.
They wear disguises when at work. Their disguises are terrible but nobody ever sees through them because they aren't supposed to.
Zed does not have a job, because he is a ZX Spectrum. In his spare time he mostly thinks about the things previously listed. The rest of the time he sulks.
> ...
The inside of the gallery is a facsimile of New York City's Grand Central Station. A lot of the objects in the simulation are copies of real-world artefacts. It's just easier to use something off-the-shelf. The art on display also comprises mostly copies of works created in the real world. Some new works have been created, although they are typically variations and combinations of existing pieces.
There is a four-by-four grid of Mona Lisas. Each one has been coloured in the style of Warhol's Marilyn prints. Dominating the left-hand wall is a huge reproduction of Richter's 1024 Colours where each square contains the RGB value of a colour instead of the colour itself. Is that the result of a rendering error or is it intentional? And does that make it art?
At the gallery entrance is an information desk, and it is here that the gang are gathered. They are attempting to get some information, which should be a free-flowing commodity in a computer simulation. However it is proving stubbornly elusive thanks to the receptionist manning the desk.
"I'm sorry sir, you're looking for a duck?" Everything about him appears calculated to irritate. His voice is annoyingly haughty, his expression disagreeably dour and even the way his hair is slicked back is in some indefinable way offensive.
He awaits a response, eyebrows arched.
John Steel leans over the desk, palms flat on its polished finish. "Yes. A big yellow duck."
The receptionist is unconcerned. "You do realise this is an art gallery and not a farm, sir?"
"Yes," says John, "I am aware that this is a gallery."
"And not a farm."
"And not," John says with creaking patience, "a farm."
"There are no ducks here. Nothing goes – " he pauses for emphasis – "quack."
John sighs. Tracey and the Professor also sigh. They are relieved John has apparently resolved not to grab the receptionist by the throat, no matter how much he deserves it.
Unfortunately the receptionist isn't done. "There are also no cows that go – " again a pause – "moo."
John snatches at the man's lapels with fists that could crush his head. "The piece," he says, teeth gritted. "Where is the piece of art that looks like a duck. It isn't actually a duck and doesn't go quack. It just looks like one." He pulls the now panicking receptionist closer, so that they are nose-to-nose. "Where is that?"
"Um," says the receptionist. "You mean Flotation Toy Warning. It's at the back, under the window."
John lets go of him. He recoils away and straightens his jacket.
"Thanks," says John, "you're doing a marvellous job."
> ...
John is not given to unprovoked violence. Indeed, when not on duty with the gang he is a family man. He has a lovely wife and two adorable children. They are the most important things in the simulated world to him.
In an ideal world his days would involve simply getting up and putting on his horn-rimmed spectacles so he wouldn't be recognised as a member of the Gang of Four. He would then ride around the city on the back of his dustbin lorry, emptying the bins street by street. Then, crucially, he would finish work at precisely 2PM. He would go home and see his wife. He would collect the kids from school. They would all eat a perfect dinner together and have a delightful evening in each other's company.
Most significantly of all, at no point in this ideal world would he be trying to make sense of an oversized bath toy which pokes tauntingly out of the sky.
> ...
"Yes," says Zed.
"What?" asks the Professor.
"Sorry," says Zed. "I was just thinking aloud."
They are approaching Flotation Toy Warning, which appears to be an exact replica of the giant duck. The sculpture however is a mere two metres high.
Tracey takes a moment to admire it. "It's still pretty impressive."
John scratches behind his ear. "I don't get it."
"I think the artist is making a statement about childhood and perspective," says the Professor.
Tracey is impressed. "How did you get that?"
"It's what it says on this little sheet." He hands a printed sheet of A4 paper to her. "I picked it up at the information desk."
"When did you do that?" She pauses and looks at John, who seems oblivious to their conversation and is instead staring at the duck. "Never mind, let's not argue about that now."
> ...
The Professor has never been a child himself. Neither has John, or Tracey, and certainly not Zed. It's doubtful that the artist responsible for Flotation Toy Warning has ever been a child either. Children are a fairly recent addition to the simulation. It's a constantly evolving piece of software.
> ...
John is still studying the duck sculpture. He is thinking about how he has never experienced childhood and what it would have been like. He is thinking about his own children, and has a fleeting urge to phone them. There will be time for that later. First there is work.
"Professor," he says, "what do you and Zed reckon?"
"Illegal clone," says the Professor, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Well, duh," adds Zed. "They most likely screwed the clone's properties up and ended up with that monstrosity up there." He said up there despite having no way to indicate any direction. This detail was not lost on him.
The Professor starts feeling around the duck with his fingertips. "If they were that incompetent there's a good chance they left some code when they broke access."
The duck, like most objects in the simulation, is a singleton. It is designed such that there is only ever one of them in existence at a time. Just like you.
"Ah," the Professor continues, "there's definitely something here." His hands rush across the sculpture's surface. "Yes, it seems they've been very careless. They've left a trail of commits all over the place."
The others watch as the Professor continues to grope the duck. "Ah!" He suddenly turns his attention to the floor. "Very, very careless! Zed, are you getting this?"
"Way ahead of you in fact. The trail leads through the door by the window."
They all turn to look at the door. It is a perfectly ordinary wooden door. It bears a sign marked 'private'.
"Well come on then," says the Professor. "With a bit of luck we'll have all this wrapped up in time for supper."
"Great," says Tracey, striding towards the door. "I'm pretty much done with today."
> ...
Tracey had started the day with guarded optimism. Still unaware that her request for a name change had in fact already been granted, she had tried to think positive thoughts. She had left her flat with every intention of going to the Hall of Records with a clear focus.
It was a nice day, she thought. Could she trust herself not to spoil it by getting into a massive argument again? Even thinking about her previous encounter was making her cross.
It is of course always a nice day in the simulation, but that didn’t stop it being a good excuse to sack off the Hall of Records and go to the pub instead.
I tell you this so you understand that if the giant duck had appeared even an hour later, Tracey would have been too drunk to safely use a jet pack. That isn't to say she's a cheap drunk. It's just that the effects of alcohol are simulated very broadly here.
> ...
On the other side of the door marked 'private', there is a small office. It was not locked, and so the Gang of Four are all squeezed into it.
The office contains a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet. It doesn't look particularly well-used, although there is no dust to give that away. There is very little dust in the simulation.
The Professor is running his fingers over the filing cabinet's drawers. "There's something in the top drawer," he announces. He tugs at the drawer. It is locked.
John smiles and pushes past him to get to the cabinet. "Stand back," he says, although nobody really has any room to stand back into.
He grips the drawer's handle with one hand and braces the cabinet with his other. He's had a day he would call vexing at best, and will take great satisfaction in taking out his frustration on a piece of office furniture.
"Yeeeeaaah!" he shouts, and pulls the handle cleanly off the drawer. His hand flies backwards with unchecked speed until it is checked by Tracey's face.
"Jethub thucking Chritht!" screams Tracey. She has a split lip and blood is pouring down her jumper and pooling on the floor. "Thuck! You thucking prick!"
"Oh dear." The Professor produces a small packet from his jacket pocket. "Would you like a tissue?"
Tracey stares wild-eyed at him. She stares at the blood splattering around her feet. She stares at him again, aghast.
"I'm so, so sorry," says John. He attempts to placate her but every attempt at contact is batted away by her shoulders. "I really didn't expect that to happen."
"You lumphering abpe!" She spits blood at him as she says this. Not deliberately, but she doesn't mind either.
The Professor puts his spurned tissues back in his pocket. "You do seem to be bleeding rather badly. Perhaps we should get some help."
"You think so?" says Zed. "She's already lost a pint. What a mess."
"Fine," says John. "You get help. I've got a score to settle with that filing cabinet." He is barely controlled rage, with any regret for his actions redirected hotly at the cabinet.
The Professor fusses Tracey out of the room. She doesn't want to cooperate with anyone but the gushing blood is beginning to make her queasy.
"It'll be fine, Tracey my dear." He nudges her towards a seat by the wall outside the office. It's like trying to steer a shopping trolley with a stuck wheel. "You have a lovely little sit down and I'll get some help."
"No," says Tracey. She sits down anyway. Heavily. "It's eathing up." She touches the split and winces. "Thuck."
From inside the office comes the sound of a well-built man assaulting a shoddily constructed filing cabinet. There is crashing and swearing. Rattling and grunting. There are further noises of indeterminate origin but on the whole it sounds like the filing cabinet is winning.
The Professor moves towards the office again.
"Wait," says Tracey. "I'll have those tithueth now. Pleathe."
He tosses her the pack and re-enters the office.
The filing cabinet is leaning back against the wall. It looks remarkably unscathed. John is leaning on the cabinet, panting heavily. He looks to be faring the worst of the two.
The Professor cocks his head and carefully considers the base of the filing cabinet for a moment. A thin smile develops. He takes a coin from his trouser pocket and places it under the filing cabinet, then gently nudges John out of the way.
John leans against the wall and watches him.
With a leisurely motion the Professor rocks the cabinet forward just enough for it to drop back onto its base. When it does so, one corner lands on the coin. There is a crash as it lands, but there is also a very faint click. It is barely audible, but it is there. This is the sound of the lock mechanism breaking.
"Old trick," says the Professor. He digs his fingers into the edge of the drawer and once he has purchase, he pulls it open effortlessly. "Voila!"
Inside the drawer a single folder hangs on the rails. The Professor reaches in and takes out a folded piece of paper.
John tidies his hair with a sweep of his hand and joins him in anticipation.
The Professor opens the paper. Inside, written in red biro, is the word 'duck'.
"Duck?" says John. "We know it's a duck."
"I wonder what it means?" asks the Professor, mostly to himself.
There is an almighty bang. The building jolts, knocking them both off their feet. They sit still for a moment, dazed. The floor is trembling and a long, low rumble is punctuated by cracks and creaks from the gallery's structure.
"Uh, guyth!" Tracey calls from outside the office. "You'll want to come and take a look at thith."
They join her where she is still sitting, a blooded wad of tissues pressed against her bottom lip. She points at the window.
There, perfectly framed by the elegantly arched window, is a growing cloud of detritus rising from downtown.
It doesn't take much deduction to realise that it is centred on the point directly below where the giant duck had been suspended. They slowly look up at where it had been anyway. They look up at the empty sky and gulp.
"My God," says John, his voice suddenly quite small. "My beautiful children! My lovely wife!"
The Professor rubs his chin absent mindedly. "Goodness," he says. "What a dreadful mess."
Zed is more succinct. "I think it's fair to say we really fucked up this time."
[Skip to index B8794B52]
City Hall stands at the edge of a vast crater. From its centre a massive duck's head peers into the distance with a black, beady eye. It is undamaged by its impact.
On the second floor of City Hall is the mayor's office. Three windows stretch from floor to ceiling. They offer a grand view of the devastation. A portly figure stands in the central window. This is the mayor. Mayor Maxwell to give his full title. His balding head glows red with fury. His fortified cheeks also glow red with fury and his greying whiskers bristle.
"Reginald!" He bellows. "Get in here at once!"
The door to his office opens, and a smartly attired gentleman glides in. His charcoal suit is immaculately turned. He wears crisp white cotton gloves and an air of total competence.
"Yes, your magnificence?"
Mayor Maxwell turns to face him. He bangs his fists on a desk the size of a family saloon car. "Get the Gang of Four in here. Now."
[Skip to index BAC19481]
"And how did that make you feel?" Dr Roper looks up from her notes at her patient.
Stephan stares at the artex ceiling. He likes how psychiatrists always ask him how he feels. He isn't really interested in anything they have to say about his feelings. He simply likes to be asked. "I felt sick," he says. "He kept calling it a duck. I mean, did he think he was on a farm?"
He sits up and meets Dr Roper's eye. "Did he think it was going to go 'quack?'"
[Skip to index A98AD144]
You are in the art gallery. The gang have just arrived at the Floating Toy Warning installation.
Tracey looks at her arm. It is in a sling. "How they hell did this happen?" she asks. "I didn't have a broken arm a moment ago. Did I?"
The Professor looks at her quizzically. "You were drunk flying. Don't you remember?"
"I'm pretty sure I'd remember breaking my arm."
"Suuuure," drawls Zed. "Because you clearly don't have your arm in a sling."
She tries to move her arm. She shrieks with pain.
[Skip to index 6EBE2D7E]
Zed is looking directly at you. He has a body now. He has a face. He has no eyes but he can see you.
"Wait," he says. "I don't think this happens until episode three."
[WAITING]