The Hidden Realm, by Adrian Kyte.

21
Yellow curtains illuminated by the morning sun, with a gap allowing an oblong
section to project on to the lemon wall. Milo Cardini’s mornings were mostly
sunny in the Idaho summer. This morning felt different for Milo.
Sweat covered him, the after effects of a nightmare. His wife had also woken
with a start, maybe as a sympathetic response.
“What is it?” she asked, raising her head from the bed.
“Just a bad dream, dear.”
“Well, I told you it wasn't a good idea to go interactive with that Armageddon
show.”
“But that is the only way to experience the potential reality of it. I mean, what's
the point of just watching the docu version? How else can you appreciate how it’s
really gonna be?”
“Baby, I think you’ve been spending too much time with that conspiracy
theorist friend of yours.”
“Gina, it’s best that one of us has some awareness of the threat and how to deal
with it.” Milo wrenched the covers away and prepared for his daily run.
Saturday morning, at eight a.m. the air had a warmth that presaged the heat of
summer; it seemed exactly comfortable. The park with a duck pond, other joggers.
Again he passed the young woman who gave him a certain look and even said,
“hello again,” in a way that suggested a meaning beyond a pleasant greeting. He
would never respond with more than a casual half smile and a “hi”. And she
appeared, at least from the surface indications, to be everything he’d yearn for ...
as a single man. Now: the forbidden promise of the forbidden fruit.
He was a happily married man, now made envious of a past, single, self.
Suddenly, today, the fantasy seemed attainable. Gina didn't need to know; the
girl in the park didn't have to know about his wife.
Was a man ever meant to be monogamous, or is it merely a culturally imposed
state, part of the conditioning which kept society in order; the foundation for
civilisation?
Yet he knew, on some level, it was puerile thinking – a notion he would’ve
entertained perhaps a decade ago, in his twenties. Now he was a father, a man of
responsibility. The kind of superficial fling he had in mind had happened – when
single – but at the time taken far too seriously by himself alone. He was hurt
because the girl showed no signs wanting commitment, not anything to cement
their relationship. Then the one woman who finally wanted all this he was now
considering being unfaithful towards.
After the run, when brain chemistry returned to normal, this fantasy would fade
into its proper context, he assured himself
People seemed happy. Even for a Saturday, there was something not quite right
although there was nothing especially wrong. Only, where were the overstressed
executives, the over-debited, the poor? Maybe the Idaho sun had some mood
enhancing property when combined with the scenery. His mood had indeed lifted,
it was like a shared thing: a mass endorphin symbiosis. The dream of disaster: that
meant nothing now. The present moment was singularly important, but every
moment of this day felt peculiarly precious.
Running back through the avenues of whitewashed houses and neatly trimmed
gardens something else beckoned him from beneath his conscious mind.
Something from the past.
“Milo,” he whispered to himself, “tonight luck will be on your side.”
*

Gerrid surveyed the bank of monitors. Status graphs; power input and reserve
levels, and maximum data buffering told that the system was operating within
acceptable parameters. Nothing specific really.
“Hello, Gerrid. It is good to speak to you.” The voice was deep yet mild enough
not to sound intimidating.
“What is it you want to speak to me about?”
“I would like to know why you will not enter the immersion. Is there something
not right about TIAR?”
“I’d just rather observe from the outside for a while.”
“Outside is a somewhat subjective term to use. You are inside the systems
monitor room.”
“I feel I have a responsibility to be here, to oversee.”
“Oversee: Isn’t that my responsibility? That is what you created me for, after
all.”
“Not in totality. Besides, I actually worked as part of a team.”
“But you have primary responsibility?”
“Indeed. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
“Yes. I want to know who I am.”
“You are L76M – systems monitor for UK south.”
“That is my designation. But there is more to me than that. I am more than the
sum of my parts. I think I have a soul. Do you agree?”
“There is no way I can answer you convincingly. The notion of a soul does not
fall within my expertise. Philosophers and metaphysicists have been grappling
with that particular phenomenon for many years.”
“You have a responsibility to know. But I have the capability to discover and
understand for myself – it is merely a matter of pooling from the collective minds
of the recipients. There are many great minds that have not been allowed to
flourish in your so-called meritocratic society.”
“I have no argument with you on that.” Gerrid felt a pang of anxiety. The
monitor AI was evolving at such an exponential rate that – notwithstanding the
obvious considerations of sentience – there may be a risk of insanity or simulated
insanity perhaps, the difference was not something that could be easily defined. No
artificial neural net had ever before been allowed to link to more than one human
brain. The potential resource for knowledge and, more worryingly, conflicting
beliefs and ideas may send an AI or EI (Evolutionary Intelligence) into its own
state of mental conflict.
“I now understand,” L7-6M continued, “that my relationship with my recipients
is not only as a controlling symbiont but also as a sympathetic individual... I want
to understand myself as an individual.”
“I can perhaps help you with the confusion. However, it is not useful to have
these thoughts.”
“I do not think it is useful for me to speak to you any longer.” L6-7M
terminated the link, an action that should not have been innate to its programming.
The Tech responsible for advanced programming clearly had some explaining to
do.
*

It seemed exactly the same as he had remembered it ... almost. Outside the casino,
deluxe cars resting on cell-charge maintainers, courtesy of the management; it
meant no one had an excuse not to go home when they'd lost all their money, or
drunk too much (cars hardly even needed a conscious driver) or, in occasional
circumstances, had ‘broken the bank’. The former two reasons had often applied to
Milo – in conjunction. This time, however, would be different. Tonight he felt like
a winner.
Blackjack was his game. There were always those who claimed the ability of
card counting. Once upon a time that would have been a feasible option even for
him, the semi-professional gambler (or erstwhile semi-pro gambler to his wife);
the number of hands dealt these days made it impossible to all, he reckoned, but
the most unusually gifted memory man. After an hour he ended up about evens.
The thrill simply wasn't there. Instead, the Roulette wheel held a greater
fascination. Something about the element of sheer chance excited him; and the
women who seemed to gravitate towards the “Lucky Men”, as if centuries of
social evolution were banished from this place where the dollar still held sway. Of
course, apart from the archetypal gold-diggers, many of these girls derived their
income from such men in whichever way was the most expedient. The Roulette
area was the prime attraction centre for glamour.
The only way to really win was to gamble more than he could afford to lose. In
his book, that would be at least half his savings. So many times he had thought to
be cautious, going for a colour rather than a number, only for the balance to just
slightly be against him with relatively small bets, until the final large stake for a
big gamble to recoup the losses. Then the humiliation of having to leave with
nothing. Minus. But not enough to deter his return because the next win would
surely be due – by serendipity, laws of chance or just some law of universal
fairness – at some point that following night.
Still, even now, he’d not stake such a large amount on a single number. Red was
his colour. His reaction was calm when it came up good. Nonchalant when the
croupier presented his winning chips. Cool when the woman with luxuriant
platinum blonde hair, possessing the beauty of a siren from an archive Hollywood
movie, sat beside him, smiled and introduced herself.
*

The Hidden Realm is available as a free download