The True Reason for the Fall of the Roman Empire
And Other Technological Mishaps Along the Road to Utopia
by Gerald Laetz
Part One
If it hadn't been digital Harry would have thought of the time as being two, or a little past two. But it was digital, so it was exactly 2:03--no more, no less. At least with analog watches there was a certain amount of realistic doubt. Computers were so damn exact, so damn sure of themselves. Harry had spent his whole life working on computers. He hated them.
In college he had changed from Engineering to Sociology to get away from them, but they had followed him into the military.
"We see here Mister Iverson that you have taken Engineering classes." The Sargeant had smiled up at him from behind his grey metal desk, and written computers on his processing form. Doing him a favor. At least he wouldn't have to carry a rifle.
"We see here that in the military you fixed computers." The clerk had smiled up at him from behind her grey metal desk at the umemployment office. "It shouldn't be too hard to find you a nice job."
Harry stared around the aircraft cabin momentarily confused, still groggy from the brief nap. Was the 2:03 New York time? or Tokyo time?
Harry couldn't remember if he had already reset the watch or not. He rubbed his eyes, then ran his hands through his short, brown hair. Greasy already, he stared at his hands, ruefully noting the hairs that had come away. Letting his hands drop to the arm rest, he laid his head back on the seat and sighed. "Geez...wouldn't this flight ever end!"
Let's see...it would have to be New York time. The plane arrived at ten in the morning Tokyo time; subtract eleven hours from 2:03, that makes it about three in the morning, Tokyo time--right now. Tomorrow? Or was this day light savings time? As often as he made this trip, Harry couldn't ever keep it straight. He'd wait. They always announced the local time before landing.
He rolled his head back and forth on the chair, trying to ease his headache, and glanced around the upper deck business class cabin of the jumbo 747. The lighting had been reduced to a pale softness, cut only here and there by the intense streak of a reading light still on. Outside, the engines droned monotonously, forming a sort of background music soon filtered out by the brain. Over half the seats were empty--just the way he liked it. The other seven passengers were still asleep; apparently the bump hadn't disturbed them.
Must have been an air pocket, he decided. Quite a jolt. He stared over at his empty drink. It was still resting peacefully on the tray of the seat back to his right; the ice was completely melted, a little yellowish water remained in the bottom.
These flights got longer each time. Sometimes it seemed that he was spending his entire life on planes--New York to Tokyo, Tokyo to Taipai, Taipai to Hong Kong, Hong Kong over the hump to CopenHagen, then back to New York, bucking the head winds of the jet stream all the way, making the long flights even longer. He had pointed it out numerous times: Tokyo to New York was a one movie flight; New York to Tokyo was two movies.
"Why not go the other way around?" he'd asked.
"Because it has always been done this way," they'd replied. "We visit the Japanese first. It's a matter of form, and appearance."
The glamorous life of a TSR (Tech Support Representative) for Avetron. Customer massaging it was called--the personal touch. Get out and rub elbows with the customers; find out about their problems; fix them. Get in. Get out. He should be back home in two weeks, if nothing serious popped up. Something serious always popped up.
Might as well have another drink, he decided. Not too good for the jet lag, but then Harry was in a constant state of jet lag. Jet lag had been described to him once as a hangover without the booze. Add booze and you get two hangovers. Oh well, try and look at the bright side, he told himself for the hundredth time. A few more months of this and then he'd get that promotion, spend more time at the home office. He could let Morton and a new guy handle this-- someone younger, more enthusiastic. He wouldn't miss it.
He leaned out into the aisle from his seat, and searched the front of the cabin for a flight attendant; there was no one in sight; they had left him alone in the candy store. It would be good for him to stand up for a while anyway. Unbuckling, Harry hoisted himself up and out into the aisle. He stumbled and lurched to the left, almost falling into the seats across from him. Fortunately they were both empty.
"Foot's asleep, damn it!" he muttered, pushing himself back up.
He stood in the aisle stretching his back and wiggling his toes--tapping his left foot softly--waiting for the tingling to subside.
It was certainly not a very crowded flight this time; there were only seven other passengers for the twenty seats located in the upper deck business class. The recession was having an effect. The seats in business were roomier, but at six foot six, and far beyond his high school playing weight, Harry was never going to be comfortable traveling-- not in this life anyway.
Deciding the foot wasn't going to get much better, Harry hobbled his way forward to the drink cart. He knew he shouldn't drink; he knew it tired him out; he knew it made the jet lag worse; he knew it was free.
Reaching the front, he stopped beside the cart, and stared down at the expensive bottles of liqueurs. Maybe he should try something different. He fingered several of the labels: Grand Marnier, Drambuie, Bailey's?
Nah...stick with the vodka and orange juice. The juice would keep him from catching another foreign cold, and the vodka was supposed to be the least harmful to the system. It hadn't worked yet, but there was always that mystical first time. He fished the half empty bottle of Vodka out from among the other bottles.
"Okay...half a glass of vodka, three ice cubes, fill it with orange juice, a little sip...aaah...now some more vodka." He took another sip and sighed as the warmth spread through his stomach. "Perfect!"
Drink in hand, he turned to look back toward his seat just as the plane dipped. He caught himself with his free hand on the wall. The plane collected itself and droned on-- and on--and on.
The same cabin as always, he observed, taking another sip. The same plastic, beige walls and ceiling; the same dirty looking seat fabrics; the same dim lighting; the constant background rumble of the engines; the black portholes of the windows staring inward. He didn't mind the darkness outside. The only thing worse than one of these overseas night flights, was an overseas day flight.
Harry stood for a while staring toward the back. Years ago, when he had first started making these overseas trips, they had seemed exciting. Now, he mused, it was more like going to the dentist. When you were in that chair, looking up at the ceiling, it was like you had spent most of your life in that chair, and in that chair time would almost come to a stop. These flights had become like that. They seemed to go on forever, with only brief intervals of his life scattered in between. His eyes became glazed and unfocused.
The plane dipped slightly, falling out from under him and bringing him back to reality. Harry sighed deeply and lumbered back down the aisle, ducking under the projector which had already shown the two movies, and collapsed heavily into his seat with a grunt.
Boy...I'll be in great shape for the meeting. Let's see. We get in at ten; then two hours to clear customs at Narita, hop the bus and get downtown to the hotel. That will be twelve o'clock. Check in, take a shower, shave, get a snack; that will make it one thirty. They're supposed to pick me up at two thirty for the meeting. Not enough time for much of a nap, and after the meeting, they'll no doubt insist on going out drinking and eating.
He shook his head, chuckling ruefully to himself. The Japanese have borrowed a lot of stuff from our culture, but nothing have they taken more to heart than the businessman's expense account--especially when it came to entertaining. For him to not go out drinking with them would give them no excuse to go out drinking themselves. He would be the cause of their having to go home to the wife and kids; a real insult, to both them and their wives. This was going to be another killer.
He took another large gulp of his drink and set the glass down on the tray. Slouching down, he tried to get more comfortable, putting his head back on the head rest, sucking on the ice cube left in his mouth. He closed his eyes. The plane bumped, his head jerked up and he opened his eyes. There was a man standing up at the drink cart, mixing a drink.
The man looked familiar--a businessman or engineer--but also different. He was still wearing his sport coat, and he didn't appear rumpled like the rest of them did by now.
Even his tie was straight.
Harry looked him over. He was maybe five ten and a hundred and seventy pounds, clean shaven, short brown hair like Harry's, and was wearing a beige polyester sport coat, dark brown slacks, a conservative yellow tie, and rubber soled loafers--an engineer? His digital watch gleamed in the dim light. It was huge; he probably had one of those calculators built into it--the ones with the tiny buttons that were too small for Harry's fingers.
A fellow traveling engineer no doubt, Harry was sure. He must have come up from the cattle car below...looking for an empty seat.
The man looked up from the drink cart and saw Harry watching him. He smiled an acknowledgment, dropped in a few more ice cubes, and headed down the aisle toward him.
"Hi. These seats empty?" He was gesturing at the seats across from Harry.
"Ah yeah...they're free...go ahead," Harry shrugged.
"My name's George Michaels." He was holding out a business card retrieved from his breast pocket.
Harry took the card and studied it. It was quite plain, black on white, no logo, just printing. Cheap, thought Harry. That would explain the cattle car.
George Michaels
Field Engineer A
Simulated Backgrounds & Environments
Biotronetics Incorporated
Biotronetics? Had he ever heard of a Biotronetics? He looked up from the card and back across the aisle. George was still smiling at him. The smile looked forced.
"Nice to meet you." Harry forced a smile back. "My name's Harry--"
"Ivers." George interrupted.
Harry blinked. Do I know this guy? I don't think I've ever heard of this Biotronetics. Name's too long for good marketing.
"Iverson, actually," Harry continued.
"What?"
"Harry Iverson."
George looked puzzled. He reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper, unfolding it.
"Iverson? Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. It's my name; I ought to know." Harry chuckled. "Have we met? I'm sorry...do I know you? In this business you meet so many people."
George was studying the piece of paper intently. "No...no...we've never met." He shook his head looking at the paper. "You're a field rep for Avetron."
"Yup. That's me. Been with them for--"
"Fourteen years." George interrupted again.
Harry blinked again.
"Wife's name is Barbara," George continued, reading
from the paper. "Two kids, one in college at the State University of New York in Buffalo--they like to call it Fubbalo--six foot six, two hundred and fifty-two pounds." Harry's mouth had fallen open. "How do you know all--"
"It's on the computer printout here." George waved the paper at him defiantly. "But it says George Ivers. Have you got any I.D.?"
"I.D.? Look I ought to..." Harry started to protest, stopped, caught himself, then started again. "I know my own name. Do I know you?" Harry was a very private person. He never volunteered much information about himself, especially over the phone. He'd learned this from his parents--small town, they were always suspicious of strangers.
"Oh, never mind. I'll just take your word for it." George folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket. "Another damn typo! Things are just getting worse and worse. Competitive bidding!" George was shaking his head in disgust.
Harry forced his mouth closed. "Excuse me?"
"Competitive bidding, it's destroying everything. Every three years new bidders jump in--new crews, cheaper salaries- -it's wrecking the industry. Damn bureaucrats!" George thumped the arm rest in anger. "Think they're saving money? No way! They save a little on the contract, but they're losing it all back in down time!" He stopped, took a deep breath and another sip of his drink.
Harry watched him closely, eyes narrowing, not knowing what to say. It must be some kind of security thing- -CIA or something. What had he been working on lately that they would be interested in?
George leaned back in his chair, savoring the drink; swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing. He rested his head on the back of the seat, looking up at the ceiling. After a moment he sighed and looked back over at Harry. "The SP just doesn't address this type of situation."
"SP?"
"Standard Practices manual...tells me I have to do it, but doesn't tell me how. Can't cover everything in a book."
"Look, Mister Michaels?" Harry jumped at the opening. He wasn't afraid of any government security guy.
"Yes Harry?" George smiled again. The smile was beginning to worry Harry. It was more of a marketing than an engineering smile; the kind that made you want to feel for your wallet. "You don't mind if I call you Harry do you?"
"Uh...yes! I mean no! Sure...whatever." Calm down, Harry told himself. He took an extra breath to gather himself. "Look, what's this all about?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why do you have my name and all that other information? What's the deal?"
George sighed again, then pulled himself erect in his seat, as though coming to a decision. "I guess there's no easy way, might as well just come out with it. Look Harry, there's this problem with your life."
"Problem with my life? What problem? Has something gone wrong at home!?" Harry felt his heart begin to race.
"No...no, it's not like that." George shook his head, looked down at his hands for an instant, then back up at Harry. "Geez, this isn't easy. Look Harry...it's a hardware problem."
"Hardware problem?" Harry's emotions now switched abruptly from fear to confusion. "How can there be a hardware problem with my life?"
"Oh man...I told them you'd never believe me. 'Doesn't matter,' they say. 'He's got to be told. It's a regulation.'"
"Mr. Michaels?"
"Okay...Harry...your simulation has gotten stuck."
"Simulation?"
"Yeah simulation, background, environment--you know-- the world you live in." George paused to look at Harry; seeing his face he hurried on. "You see, we at Biotronetics have the O & M contract for the background environment systems that you live in."
"O & M?" "You know...operations and maintenance."
"I know what O & M means!" Harry snapped in exasperation. He stopped to think for a minute. "Are you saying you maintain the background in my life?"
"Well not just your life of course." George waved his hand expansively through the air. "We at Biotronetics have the contract for the entire eighth district."
Harry took another deep breath and let it out. Calm down, he told himself. He took a furtive look to the front of the cabin; the attendant was still missing, and the other passengers appeared to be sound asleep. It looked like he was on his own. You don't expect to find these kinds of people outside of New York--especially here on an overseas flight, and wearing a beige polyester sport coat. Maybe this is what happens to you after too many of these overseas trips. Wait a minute! If he's a nut, how come he has all this information on me?
Inside his mind, Harry snapped two imaginary fingers together. This must be some kind of joke. That was it! Probably Morton and the guys at the office; like that time in Korea with the kim chee and the bottle of beer. That's it-- a joke. Let's see how far this goes; play along for a while.
"Okay...let me see if I have this straight. You're telling me that my life is being lived in some kind of simulator."
"Correct." George smiled that smile again.
"None of this around me is real." Harry waved his hand around the cabin.
"Of course not."
"Why of course not?"
"Mr. Ivers do you--"
"Iverson." Harry corrected, suppressing a laugh.
"Oh yeah...sorry. Mr. Iverson, do you have any idea how much it would cost to run a real universe for all the souls who now exist here?"
"Not really."
George looked away from Harry, up at the ceiling as if he was trying to compute a number in his head. After a moment he stopped and looked back at Harry. "Well, a bunch; besides, real or simulation, what's the difference?" George paused--studying Harry--apparently waiting for an answer. "Ah...well, reality is real, for one thing." It was all Harry could think of.
"Yeah, that's what they all say. But that's just it. Have you ever thought about this? With reality what you see is all you get, but with simulation you can improve things: redder reds, bluer blues, sharper sounds, realler realities; that's how the guys in marketing put it, when they were pushing the idea upstairs--with simulation you can improve on reality."
"So you guys tinker with reality?"
"No of course not!" George shook his head vigorously.
"But you just said--"
"It's against the regulations. You're missing my point."
"What is your point?"
"The point is...we haven't run a real universe for the last fifty thousand years."
"You haven't?" It was getting harder. Harry almost burst out laughing. This was good; it had to be Morton's doing. Simulators, virtual reality, that was his area. "Well what did you do with the real universe?"
"Shut it down."
"You shut it down?" Harry coughed. "I see."
"Shut it down and converted to simulators, fifty thousand years ago--much cheaper." George leaned back in his seat, smiling in recollection. "Yeah, those were heady days: lots of work and very little paper. The equipment broke a lot then of course; new stuff, you understand. Took us a good thirty thousand years to get all the bugs worked out. But the hardware was just part of it; the software was quite a problem too--especially the filter. It took so many patches to straighten it out, you wouldn't believe it. I swear the patches were bigger than the original program, but we had good people then, not like these kids today. They're a little too sloppy for me. Spoiled, you know. They would never have made it back then."
George sighed, reflecting. "Yeah...we shut it down; sold it all off for salvage; got only ten berks on the folden. Some of the galaxies were too big. They had to change the zoning, and sell them off as quarter galaxy lots, but sometimes you just have to cut your losses."