between inside and outside, leading to a complete failure of the conventional cyberspace illusion that you are looking at a perspective view of an object in three-dimensional space.
My ant leapt right onto the piece of fnoor. She ran this way and that, feeling about with her antennae, seeming almost to be flipping the faces with her nimble feet. It was as if we were running forward, yet the same piece of fnoor kept being underfoot. Finally my ant found the spot she was looking for, a crazy funhouse door in the fnoor. Bending herself nearly double at the petiole, the ant squeezed herself and me through the aperture. Now we were inside the fnoor, and ants were everywhere. We were in an anthill.
Instead of being made of incorrectly hinged plane segments, the interior of the moor was a true solid model, pieced together from filled regions of three-dimensional space. Here, as on the fnoor’s surface, the component pieces were hooked up inconsistently, so that-this is hard to describe-the inside/outside, left/right, up/down, and front/back orientation of each of the component space pieces was being continuously redefined. Naturally my ant headed for the very heart of this agglomeration of weirdness.
What was I thinking all this time? Why didn’t I just say, “Help,” so that Studly would unplug my machine?
Although what I was seeing was terrifying and bizarre, I felt confident that it was not really dangerous to me. Nothing in cyberspace is dangerous-unless you’re a sensation-hungry cretin who buys things like boxing game peripherals that punch you in the ribs. I’ve heard that there are even black market peripherals capable of stabbing or shooting the user; these to be used in moronic macho cyberduels. No violent peripherals for me!
No, no-I was in no physical danger from cyberspace events, but what about the old tradition that “certain sights can destroy a man’s mind”? Well, what with years of math and pot and hacking behind me, I felt that by now my mind was a pretty tough nut to crack. So, no, I wasn’t scared of what the ant would show me. My problem, as I’ve been harping on, was loneliness. The ant was taking me somewhere; therefore, I was less lonely.
As we moved about the ant-filled corridors of the insanely shifting fnoor, I realized that this entire structure was in fact four-dimensional. Once I had this key insight, the fnoor’s motions began to make sense. And I realized that there was a logical reason why the rogue ants had made their nest four-dimensional: to make it harder to find. Four-dimensional things can appear quite small with respect to our normal space. The spatial cross section of a hyperobject is merely the tip of an iceberg of additional geometry that sticks out into hyperspace.
My ant pressed forward until we found ourselves in a large, roughly spherical chamber. Though the fnoor walls and spaces were shifting as ever, the space inside the chamber remained untouched; it was like the eye of a hurricane. Crouched in the center was the queen herself, a plump, golden ant with a gaster distended to a hundred times the normal ant size, a gaster like a hollow golden shrimp-shaped puff earring. Worker ants kept running up to the queen and regurgitating food for her. At first I couldn’t make out the nature of the food units-flat rectangular slips-but then I realized these were pieces of simmie-paper bearing the addresses of unused memory locations the ants had found. I briefly wondered if the ants were still working on using up the DTV chips of my cyberdeck’s video display, or if they were already busy colonizing someone else’s chips.
The queen devoured each new memory address one hexadecimal digit at a time, chomping her way down the numbered slips, raising her front legs up in tremulous ant excitement as the figures went down. After each new address, the queen’s gaster shuddered, and out popped a white, comma-shaped ant larva, which was then gently seized by the jaws of a worker and borne away.
To my horror, my ant went right up to the ant queen and crouched there so that the queen could feel me all over with her antennae. She raised her front legs and opened her mouth as if to byte my head off. I screamed incoherently, but then we were past the queen and farther on our way, following one of the ants that carried a new larva.
We visited the ant nursery next, the place where the twitching ant larvae lay during maturation. I recalled Roger’s having told me that after the queen would issue an ant its memory space and its program code, the new ant still needed to do a certain amount of internal housekeeping to tune in on the specific numerical value of its memory address, to adjust to the special hardware quirks of the DTV chip it found itself on, and to patch over any glitches caused by the deliberate mutation of bits. Until all of these problems had been worked out-which could take as long as several hours of computation time, an ant’s little simmie-body took the form of a larva instead of an ant.
Leaving the nursery, we went through a large gallery holding a great number of ants-and other kinds of simmies. I was surprised to see that I was not the only non-ant.
Biological anthills usually contain a wide range of the myrmecophilous or ant-loving creatures who live in the colony as parasites, symbiotes, or as the ant pets collectively known as myrmecoxenes or symphiles. There is a certain small beetle, for instance, which is kept and fed by the ants simply because the ants enjoy licking tasty waxy secretions from the beetle’s antennae. It’s as if you were to pay a person to live with you simply because you liked the taste of the person’s skin oil-not so farfetched, really, considering that, for example, the smells and tastes of Carol’s body were the things about her that I missed the most.
The myrmecophilous simmies I saw in the anthill were of such diversity that I realized that the GoMotion ants must have escaped to make this colony quite some time ago. There are all sorts of artificial life-forms which rove the Net; known collectively by the old Unix name of daemons, these constructs do things of a housekeeping or organizational function. The ants had any number of “janitors” and “secretaries” living in their midst. More unsettlingly, I saw, at some distance, a few simmies that looked like hackers’ tuxedos. How many hackers had already found their way into this anthill? And what were they doing here? I could only speculate, as my ant didn’t carry me close to them.
We drew near a translucent wall with dark shapes behind it. My ant pressed her head against the wall and*zonnng* the wall hyper-rotated to our rear and we were inside a virtual room furnished with armchairs, a couch, a bar, and a massive art deco desk. There was a glowing ceiling lamp shaped like a flattened hemisphere.
The room’s color palette was monochrome, with everything a silvery shade of gray or black. The room looked like a gangster’s secret office at the back of a nightclub in a forties film not.
There were three simmies waiting in the office: Roger Coolidge, Susan Poker, and Death. Death had a dark, shrouded body, a loose-skinned white face with terrible hollow eyes, and a mouth that was a coarse metal zipper. The zipper’s heavy slider was padlocked to a hasp at one end.
“I appreciate your working with us on this, Mr. Rugby,” said the Susan Poker simmie as she stepped forward, rummaging in her double-jointed purse. “What are your work hours?”
I grunted heavily with surprise, yet refrained from vocalizing the magic word “Help,” which, I knew, would instantly galvanize faithful Studly into pulling out the computer’s plug.
My ant under me bowed forward repeatedly, making slavish obeisances to the figure with the white face and the zippered padlocked mouth-the one I thought of as Death. Such bizarre cartoonlike or masklike body images were common in the screwed-up cryp and phreak circles that criminals and teenagers involved themselves in. Death’s dark, cowled body rippled. The ant regurgitated my data gloves, simultaneously releasing a substantial heap of what looked like reflection hologram memory ribbon from the cloaca at the back of her gaster. Gently stridulating, she inched back to the farthest corner of the room and crouched there, the light glinting off her great, faceted eyes.
“I’m sorry, Jerzy,” said the Roger figure. “This is all for the best. You’ll see. I’m not at liberty to tell you more. Don’t forget that GoMotion is a public company. I could be sued. Jerzy, it will be a very good, safe, and profitable thing for you and for your wife and children if you accept what this one advocates.” The Roger figure prostrated himself before the Death figure. “Jerzy, this is Hex DEF6.”
I regarded the face of white canvas, the dark eye sockets, and the cruel metal mouth zipper hasped shut by a brass padlock with a steel shank. Surrealistically, the groveling “Roger” corkscrewed himself into the shape of a wizened mandrake root, a shape that moaned and whinnied and stained itself with shit and blood. My carrier ant continued her dirgelike chirping.
“Jerzy Rugby,” said Death. The fabric of his face vibrated as he talked. “Perhaps you wonder about my name? You’re a hacker, figure it out. ‘Hex’ is ‘base sixteen,’ and ‘DEF6’ is ‘13 14 15 6’.”
“So what?” said I. “Is that supposed to be a pointer?” Death stared at me, oddly turning his head. Now the Susan Poker simmie spoke again.
“Roger and Hex DEF6 want you to work for West West,” said the Realtor. The ant chirped along with her, in sync with her voice. Faint blue lines of force ran from the twitching legs of the great ant to the tidy limbs of the
