“I know you said. But I try little dancing, and body fine. I try little more, and body still fine.”
“So you tried a little more, and now we have to buy a new wrist, and a new display tile.” She briefly wonders how quickly she can replace them, if she can keep Kyle — who is out of town on business — from finding out about this. A few months ago Jax damaged a piece of sculpture that Kyle loved, and it might be better not to remind him of that incident.
“I very very sorry,” says Jax.
“Okay, back to Data Earth.”Ana points to the charging platform.
“I admit was mistake—”
“Just go.”
Jax dutifully heads over. Just before he steps on the platform, he says quietly, “It not Data Earth.” Then the robot-body’s helmet goes dark.
Jax is complaining about the private version of Data Earth that the Neuroblast user group has set up, duplicating many of the continents from the original. In one respect it’s much better than the private island they used as a refuge from the IFF hack, because now processing power is so cheap that they can run dozens of continents. In another respect it’s much worse, because those continents are almost entirely devoid of inhabitants.
The problem is not just that all the humans have moved to Real Space. The Origami and Faberge digients have gone to Real Space too, and Ana can hardly blame their owners; she’d have done the same, given the opportunity. Even more distressing is that most of the Neuroblast digients are gone as well, including many of Jax’s friends. Some members of the user group quit when Data Earth closed; others took a “wait and see” approach, but grew discouraged after they saw how impoverished the private Data Earth was, choosing to suspend their digients rather than raise them in a ghost town. And more than anything else, that’s what the private Data Earth resembles: a ghost town the size of a planet. There are vast expanses of minutely-detailed terrain to wander around in, but no one to talk to except for the tutors who come in to give lessons. There are dungeons without quests, malls without businesses, stadiums without sporting events; it’s the digital equivalent of a post-apocalyptic landscape.
Jax’s human friends from the tetrabrake scene used to log into the private Data Earth just to visit Jax, but their visits have grown increasingly infrequent; all the tetrabrake events happen on Real Space now. Jax can send and receive choreography recordings, but a major part of the scene is live gatherings where choreography is improvised, and there’s no way for him to participate in those. Jax is losing most of his social life in the virtual world, and he can’t find one in the real one: his robot body is categorized as an unpiloted free-roaming vehicle, so he’s restricted from public spaces unless Ana or Kyle is there to accompany him. Confined to their apartment, he becomes bored and restless.
For weeks Ana tried having Jax sit at her computer in his robot body and log into Real Space that way, but he refuses to do it anymore. There were difficulties with the user interface — his inexperience with using an actual computer, compounded by the camera’s suboptimal tracking of gestures performed by a robot body — but she believes they could have overcome them. The bigger problem is that Jax doesn’t want to control an avatar remotely: he wants to be the avatar. For him, the keyboard and screen are a miserable substitute for being there, as unsatisfying as a jungle videogame would be to a chimpanzee taken from the Congo.
All the remaining Neuroblast digients are having similar frustrations, making it clear that a private Data Earth is only a temporary fix. What’s needed is a way to run the digients on Real Space, allowing them to move freely and interact with its objects and inhabitants. In other words, the solution is to port the Neuroblast engine — to rewrite it to run on the Real Space platform. Ana has persuaded Blue Gamma’s former owners to release the source code for Neuroblast, but it will take experienced developers to do the rewriting. The user group has posted announcements on open-source forums in an attempt to attract volunteers.
The sole advantage of Data Earth’s obsolescence is that their digients are safe from the dark side of the social world. A company called Edgeplayer markets a digient torture chamber on the Real Space platform; to avoid accusations of unauthorized copying, they use only public-domain digients as victims. The user group has agreed that once they get the Neuroblast engine ported, their conversion procedure will include full ownership verification; no Neuroblast digient will ever enter Real Space without someone committed to taking care of it.
It’s two months later, and Derek is browsing the user’s group forum, reading the responses to an earlier post of his on the status of the Neuroblast port. Unfortunately, the news was not good; the attempts to recruit developers for the project haven’t met with much success. The user group has held open-house events in their private Data Earth so that people could meet the digients, but there have been very few takers.
The problem is that genomic engines are old news. Developers are drawn to new, exciting projects, and right now that means working on neural interfaces or nanomedical software. There are scores of genomic engines languishing in various states of incompletion on the open-source repositories, all in need of volunteer programmers, and the prospect of porting the dozen-year-old Neuroblast engine to a new platform may be the least exciting of them all. Only a handful of students are contributing to the Neuroblast port, and considering how little time they’re able to devote, the Real Space platform will itself be obsolete before the port is finished.
The other alternative is to hire professional developers. Derek has talked to some developers with experience in genomic engines, and requested quotes on how much it would cost to port Neuroblast. The estimates he’s received are reasonable given the complexity of the project, and for a company with several hundred thousand customers, it would make perfect sense to go ahead with it. For a user group whose membership has dwindled down to about twenty people, however, the price is staggering.
Derek reads the latest comments on the discussion forum, and then calls up Ana. Having the digients confined to a private Data Earth has definitely been hard, but for him there’s also been a silver lining: he and Ana have reason to talk every day now, whether it’s about the status of the Neuroblast port or trying to organize activities for their digients. Over the last few years Marco and Polo had drifted away from Jax as they all pursued their own interests, but now the Neuroblast digients have only each other for company, so he and Ana try to find things for them to do as a group. He no longer has a wife who might complain about this, and Ana’s boyfriend Kyle doesn’t seem to mind, so he can call her up without recrimination. It’s a painful sort of pleasure to spend this much time with her; it might be healthier for him if they interacted less, but he doesn’t want to stop.
Ana’s face appears in the phone window. “Have you seen Stuart’s post?” Derek asks. Stuart pointed out what each person would have to pay for them if they divided the cost evenly, and asked how many of the members could afford that much.
“I just read it,” says Ana. “Maybe he thinks he’s being helpful, but all he’s doing is getting people anxious.”
“I agree,” he says. “But until we come up with a good alternative, the per-person cost is what everyone will be thinking about. Have you met with that fundraiser yet?” Ana was going to talk to a friend of a friend, a woman who has run fundraising campaigns for wildlife sanctuaries.
“As a matter of fact, I just got back from lunch with her.”
“Great! What did you find out?”
“The bad news is, she doesn’t think we can qualify for nonprofit status, because we’re only trying to raise money for a specific set of individuals.”