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Overview
Michael Berlyn is an American computer game designer and writer. He is known as an Implementor at Infocom, part of the text adventure game design team. Berlyn joined Marc Blank in founding the game company Eidetic, which later became Sony Bend. He is also a composer and continues to create games for the Apple App Store.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781497673038 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 08/12/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 214 |
| File size: | 462 KB |
About the Author
Michael Berlyn is an American computer-game designer and writer. He is known as an Implementor at Infocom, part of the text-adventure-game design team. Berlyn joined Marc Blank in founding the game company Eidetic, which later became Sony Bend. He is also a composer and continues to create games for the Apple app store.
Read an Excerpt
The Integrated Man
By Michael Berlyn
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1980 Michael BerlynAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7303-8
CHAPTER 1
The small chip of plastic reached the top of its arc, spun on its axis, and fell into the fleshy, upturned palm of Alexander Franklin Morrison. He shifted the chip with his fingers until it rested on his thumbnail, then snapped it into the air.
The chip was smooth; sixteen square millimeters by two millimeters thick; a relatively small piece of hardware that contained thousands of circuits imprinted on each molecular layer—circuits which served as analogs of human neural pathways.
Alone in the darkened office, Morrison sat in his black, overstuffed easy chair. His suit bunched up—puckers appeared in his vest where the cloth was strained by buttons, seams on his pants stretched at his thighs, and the back of his jacket spread across his shoulders to make him look larger than his two hundred sixty-seven pounds. Heavy, pouting lips pursed around a hand-wrapped cigar formed a smile. His heavy-lidded gray eyes crinkled as he smiled, following the path of the chip as it landed on the floor.
He grunted, removed the cigar from his lips, and pushed himself up. The chair creaked under the strain.
The chip lay unprotected.
"Good-bye, Donald Sherman," he said.
Morrison's heel plunged down, crushing the bit of plastic. What had once been the personality of Donald Sherman was now destroyed. Morrison laughed.
He walked to the sheet of polarized glass which lined the entire west wall and looked at the city below. The multicolored and multilayered tubes, bridges, and spires awakened old feelings in him—feelings that had disappeared ten years ago with the appearance of Donald Sherman. With Sherman gone, the satisfaction of owning planets and people regained its charm, Morrison thought.
He tried to clasp his hands behind his back but found the task too difficult. He felt a twinge of pain in his left shoulder and dropped his arms to his sides. He thought of Helene, realized she should hear the news, and went back to his desk.
Still smiling, he waved a pudgy hand over the inlaid metal plaque on his desktop. The screen on the right edge of the desk lit up with the image of a woman's face. Her blue eyes were cold and expressionless as she awaited his instructions.
"Andra, get me Mrs. Morrison," he said.
The young woman did nothing to acknowledge his request: courtesy was inefficient. Morrison could not see her hands move, but he knew she was combing through the communication circuits which wound around the globe like cobwebs of laser light. Two seconds after his request, she completed the circuit to his home.
The screen flashed a random color display while he waited for Helene to accept the call. It took her thirty seconds.
His smile still stretched across his face. He caught a glimpse of the old beauty which lay beneath the restructured face before him—a face which lied to those who knew her age. The wrinkles and excess fatty deposits had been removed.
She looks fifteen, no, twenty years younger, Morrison thought, and it still doesn't help. Beneath that smooth skin lies the same, cold, calculating bitch.
He wondered why he had bothered to call in the first place. What had he been thinking when he decided to share his news? She wouldn't be happy to hear it
Helene sighed. "You crushed it, didn't you?"
"Yes. He's dead."
She threw back her head and laughed. Morrison saw the deep lines in her neck, the lines the surgeon had missed. He turned red, angry with himself for letting her intimidate him so easily, and then redder as his anger mounted.
"Stop that!" he shouted.
But she was already quieting down. The spasm of laughter died. "You're really something, Alexander," she said, wiping a tear from her youthful right cheek. "You've crushed a chip and now it's over." She wiped a wet finger on her dress.
"It is over. Sherman is dead. All the murders and destruction will stop now that the miners are without a leader."
She shook her head. "Your stupidity amazes me. How can you be so blind? For a man who controls hundreds of planets—"
He broke the connection shaking with rage. His blood pressure rose and the congestion built in his temples. He sat back and forced himself to relax, resigned to the fact that Helene would never understand, would never change.
But even though his wife had broken his mood, when he turned back to look at the smashed chip on the floor, his smile returned.
Sherman was, at last, dead.
Snowy white.
The beads of dew sparkled, crystallized in the chill of the morning. The ground crunched: frozen blades of grass and mud dotted with ice puddles were crushed beneath his boots.
Donald Sherman stopped for a brief rest, knowing that he should not stop at all. He turned to the north and looked back at the valley behind him. His breath was a ragged stream of pale, white mist, and his feet felt the chill creep in. Hands jammed into Jacket pockets and curled into fists, he tried to shake off the cold and wished for the warmth of the morning sun. He turned back to the south.
If they were not already after him, they would not be coming at all. The sun would melt the trail his boots had left in the frost. Although his direction would have been simple to guess, he did not think that anyone left behind was physically capable of following.
The miners in the barracks had smashed the company's surveillance equipment in the staged riot, and the guards had arrived just when the nerve gas had been released. He allowed himself a smile.
A scar ran from his left cheek down across both lips, ending at his chin, distorting the smile into something ugly, lopsided. His lips cracked.
From behind the distant mountains to his left, the sun rose. It was a red dwarf, and as it topped the mountains, it turned the sky crimson. Clouds passed before it and the sky darkened to a blood-red. His tall, lanky, youthful body cast no shadow and, with each step, his shoulders sagged forward and his long legs ached with fatigue.
The still houses slept in the valley behind him. He knew no smoke rose from the chimneys, no early morning fires warmed the inhabitants, no dogs barked to awaken children for school or play, no men or women rose to prepare for the long day working at the mines a half kilometer to the east. No motion. No activity. No life.
The gas had killed the entire town.
Hopefully, the neighboring village to the east and the supply town to the west had been eliminated, too. If all had gone well, he would have time to walk to the spaceport in safety.
Donald Sherman had the utmost confidence in his selves.
As the sun rose over the mountains behind him, his shadow stretched out like a guide to the spaceport. The early morning sun reminded him of another time, another planet.
The dead village was already being warmed, but no sun could take the chill out of the bodies that lay there with unearthly smiles. As he watched his shadow move in rhythm with his short, stocky, middle-aged body, Sherman smiled. The village had grown in balance with the planet's ecosystems and it would die the same way.
No people would stir from their nice, warm beds, no children would awaken to a day of boredom at the company's day-care center, no coffee cups would appear as if by magic on gleaming plastic breakfast tables. As he walked to the west, toward the spaceport, Sherman thought it was good he left the native bacteria alive.
At least they would have something on which to thrive.
The sun peaked over the mountains and he had to shield his eyes from its direct glare. The cold hurt his thin, delicate hand as he removed it from his coat pocket, but it was little discomfort to suffer compared to those who had died in the supply town's barracks.
Before him the spaceport grew as his long, graceful, legs continued their steady pace. The stitch in his left side, far below the woman's breast, caused him some concern. To rest now, though, would make him late.
As he walked, he reached for an imicig, patted his fur coat pocket and realized she probably did not smoke. Walking in a woman's body was different, but he found that if he let his mind wander and did not concentrate at all, the body propelled itself.
He inhaled, waited a moment for the imicig's drug to take effect, then exhaled. His tall, lanky body cast a thin shadow to his right, covering the already melting patches of frost as he continued on his steady pace to the spaceport.
He saw the figure in the west first; they were equidistant from the spaceport's towering structure, but approaching from right angles. Sherman waved his arm in the prearranged manner; the woman in the distance waved back.
Good, Sherman thought. She made it, too.
Then the west was taken care of, and with no other settlements within a thousand kilometers, only the east remained. The security men from the spaceport had hopefully rushed to help quell the riot in the east village and had left the spaceport unguarded.
He stopped, flicked the imicig a few meters to his left and waited for the little, middle-aged man. He watched the east, squinting against the sun. A few minutes passed before the man appeared.
He waited until the man's limbs were easily discernible and then waved. The little figure returned the wave and Sherman smiled again. He had succeeded.
Now, the spaceport.
The spaceport was not designed for pedestrians. The main entrance was through a set of sliding glass doors which opened onto a roadway ten meters above the ground. It was aesthetically pleasing when approached by public transportation or aircar, but approached on foot, it towered overhead.
The two men and the woman met beneath the ramp's discolored, concrete forms. Sherman felt a mild discomfort, like an itch in the back of his mind. Anxiety, he realized. After having made the trek overland with nothing but a few clouds overhead, the presence of the roadway above was unnerving.
As if on cue, the three people shifted their weight from the left foot to the right, jammed their hands deeper into their pockets, and looked at each other. The short, stocky man sniffled. The tall, lanky man with the scar on his cheek cleared his throat.
"Any problems?" he asked.
The woman and little man shook their heads.
"Good," the tall one said. "I don't expect to need either of you for a while. I'll insert you if and when the opportunity for updating arises. We're on to Lanta 2. Any questions?" he asked, knowing there would be none.
They had already removed their coats and unbuttoned the top button on their work shirts, turning their backs to him. In the back of their necks, directly below the base of their skulls, was a thin metal slot. Protruding from the slot was the edge of a thin piece of plastic. Sherman stepped forward and removed the white chip from the woman. He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and withdrew a small, plastic case. It snapped open with a slight pressure from his thumb. He carefully placed the white chip from the woman, then the white chip from the man into the foam-lined recesses next to a red chip. Two recesses were empty.
The two people refastened their clothing and turned to face him.
"How did it go?" the woman asked evenly.
"Fine," Sherman said.
"No problems at all?" the short, stocky man asked, rubbing his short, bristly hair with a palm. "I mean, it went all right?"
Sherman nodded. The man broke into a baby-faced grin. Sherman looked at them and searched for the right words, the words to express his emotions, but the deeper he dug, the more difficult it was to verbalize what he felt.
"Thank you," he said at last. He hesitated for a moment, shifted his weight, and added, "You don't have to go through with the rest of this if you don't want to."
"My husband and children are dead. Back there," the woman said, pointing to the west. "There's nothing left for me. I don't mind since we've—I mean, you've—succeeded."
The short man nodded in agreement.
They took the capsules from Sherman's outstretched palm and, without hesitation, placed them in their mouths. As the gelatin capsules dissolved, the scarred man climbed the concrete forms to the roadway.
They were dead before he reached the top.
The shuttle was empty but ready as always for passengers. Calming colors of light blue and mint-green housed rows of plush, imitation velvet acceleration seats on each side of the aisle; the false viewports were carefully placed to help relieve and control the potential claustrophobics; the small packages of snacks and amusements were stowed in compartments before each seat. Every aspect of the shuttle was designed in an attempt to make the passengers forget and ignore the thin metal shell that protected them from space. It was a carefully controlled atmosphere planned to erase the impression of danger.
Sherman settled into the seat nearest the door and waited. The only people in the spaceport had been miners, chips inside their receptacles feeding information to them on how to run the semi-automated spaceport. The guards and supervisors had left to help as he had hoped.
It was warm in the ship and he removed his jacket, laying it on the seat next to him. He relaxed when he heard the hum of the artificial gravity system.
All systems on the shuttle were automatic. As the ship rose, holographic scenes flashed onto the viewports to create the feeling of movement and space. Sherman did not bother to look.
He tried not to think of the carnage he was leaving behind. No matter how willing the victims, it had still been mass murder. Three communities deliberately destroyed. He hid his face in his hands and waited for the journey to end.
Of the two remaining planets within the Lanta System, Sherman had chosen the neutral one: Lanta 2.
Bobbi Osaka-Chien was nude, lying on her side. She looked at Morrison's sleeping form. When he had arrived at her door, elated, eager for the attention Helene never gave him, Bobbi had opened her arms. She had taken him in, undressed, massaged, and fed him; after sex, she led him to her bed.
She was used to the luxuries he lavished on her. She earned them by providing him with emotional responses he could not get elsewhere. For this, she was paid well. It was her responsibility to be there when he wanted her.
A chime sounded in the living room and she knew it had awakened him. Morrison opened his bloodshot eyes.
"Who?" he asked, still half asleep.
"Shhh. Go back to sleep. You need your rest," she said in a soft, protective tone.
Morrison grunted and rolled over onto his side. Bobbi eased out of bed and walked into the living room—a room twice the size of most luxury apartments. The ceiling was seven meters high and the room was twenty meters long. She headed directly for the wall where fee phonescreen was hidden. She pressed a touchplate; a panel slid down and into the wall to reveal fee screen. She touched fee monitor button and faced the image of a woman. The woman's tight-lipped smile, functional rather than stylish hair, and freshly scrubbed face contrasted with Bobbi's appearance. It was Morrison's secretary, Andra.
Bobbi knew Andra had strict orders not to disturb Morrison in her apartment unless it was important. She pressed the accept button.
"Mr. Morrison, please," Andra said.
"He's asleep."
"Then wake him."
Bobbi sighed and went back to the bedroom. She leaned over Morrison's sleeping form and caressed his shoulder until he stirred.
"It's your secretary," she said.
He got up quickly, grabbed his silk robe, and pulled it on. He tied the sash and adjusted it while he walked to the screen. As he saw his secretary's face, he noticed the deep lines across her forehead. Morrison nodded.
"Yes, Andra."
"First, Mrs. Morrison already knows everything—she was sitting in your office at home when the message from Lanta 1 came through. She must have pressed the monitor button. As soon as the message was over she was on the circuit and trying to get through to you. She's still holding."
That figures, he thought. I'm surprised she isn't outside the door, pounding on it, trying to break it down. "All right. Let her hold for a few minutes. What happened?"
"Lanta 1. Three communities wiped out. The pattern was a little different, but close enough. They found two bodies at the spaceport."
"Impossible." Morrison's face went white and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. "I killed him myself."
"According to our field men, someone boarded a shuttle for Lanta 2. The shuttle has already landed and our man who's following is a little over an hour behind him."
Morrison shook with rage and frustration. His face turned deep red and the veins in his neck bulged.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Integrated Man by Michael Berlyn. Copyright © 1980 Michael Berlyn. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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