Viewschool Read online

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  Fictionwise

  www.Fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©2004 by Rajnar Vajra

  First published in Analog, September 2004

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Ten, nine, eight: my classroom timer blinking away the final seconds. How I loathe what comes next! At this point I always wish I could take Pink Floyd's old advice to leave kids alone. If those are butterflies in my stomach, the bastards have claws. Three, two, one...

  My scalp tingles in what the ViewNet bible refers to so casually as “prelude to visual simulation through direct cortical stimulation.” Prelude to nausea would be more honest. Suddenly the rear half of my skull lights up internally as some electronic demon shoves the equivalent of two lidless eyes into the back of my brain, forcing me to stare into blank brightness where no brightness belongs.

  Of course my real eyes take to shrieking that they're still straddling my nose, still the boss of all things optical, instigating a tug-of-war with the new bass-ackwards viewpoint. The room, as usual, starts twirling despite its drawn shades and dimmed bulb. The trick now is keeping both my balance and my breakfast. Not by accident, I'm sitting down.

  Far too gradually, the carousel brakes and finally stops. I rub my jaw, which aches from clenching.

  I hear that some people who've had no more training than me can see in two directions simultaneously about now. But why risk a brain-hernia? It's easier to simply switch attention to and fro, from the scene in front to the simulated posterior display: the “occipital subjective presentation."

  If we're talking theory, an OSP is a fantastic idea, making use of the emptiness beyond the normal visual field and placed so that you're not tempted to keep turning your head. The practice is something else. I keep hoping that some saint of a technician will invent a way to put all needed information into a standard “heads-up” subjective display without essentially blinding the user. I also keep hoping the White Sox will take the pennant again and the Bulls will find another Michael Jordon....

  My stomach finally settles. Normally, the worst is over.

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  Monday morning of September 4th, 2034, the worst hadn't even begun. As the dizziness eased, I inhaled a barrelful of air and pressed a blue-glowing button on the controller. My OSP split into six separate rectangles, two rows of three. A 3D image of each of my new students—matching their real faces and bodies, not their proxies—appeared above each section. Beneath these rotating forms were names, tags, locations, proxy thumbnails, evaluation scores, and the first few lines of detailed, varied, but universally rancid personal histories. I didn't need to scroll down and read on; I'd already done my homework. Truly, I could've made do with nothing but the real-time images although names and Internet handles are handy because bumping into my mid-forties seems to have dulled my memory.

  Dr. Martin Robley, my supervisor, had suggested that I use Internet protocol and refer to these students by tag rather than name. “That'll show them that you respect their choices, Bill,” he'd said, which convinced me he hadn't bothered reading their files.

  Last year, I'd taught youngsters who were allergic to the universe, or had fiercely communicable diseases, or who were too disabled to be moved. Piece of cake. This year I'd drawn the dregs of the lost souls. Two of these adolescents were hair-trigger violent, one was semi-catatonic, one was brilliantly malicious, one wouldn't or couldn't stop grinning, and one shivered in perpetual terror. All were supposedly well above average intelligence, although the IQ tests must've been run before they'd rotted on the vine. All had been declared unsuitable for even the most “special” physical classroom. A word any self-respecting dictionary would spit out: “unteachable,” appeared in every report.

  Such rejects would never be mainstreamed but the law demanded an effort, so they'd been “side-streamed,” a term with deliberate Internet connotations. It boiled down to one grotesque fact: I was stuck with thoroughbred losers. I'd done my best, spent months preparing some unique educational materials, but I was sure I'd wasted my time and the time of a lot of good folks at my ViewNet provider.

  Releasing the grandmother of all sighs, I focused my fake eyes on the left upper rectangle. His name was Curtis Bouden and his tag was Q-Ball: a skinny black sixteen-year-old with an upsetting resemblance to my older son, Tai. But my son had never glared at anyone or anything that way in his life. I'm sure of it. And Tai lacked a constellation of cigarette-burn scars across his forehead. Q-Ball's proxy—or “envoy,” “onview,” or “e-con,” if you prefer—was a huge black bouncer-type with a scarred nose and shaved head, vaguely familiar. Maybe a pro football player. I love basketball and baseball but can't bear football or hockey because they've become such a celebration of brutality. Besides, who can stand football commentators?

  Below Q-Ball, Madeline Broms gazed at nothing with empty eyes. She'd selected no tag and since she'd requested no proxy, ViewNet had defaulted to one with her own bland features. Broms was responsive enough to make her part of this class, but just barely, as if she'd gauged her evaluation team precisely. She was blond, tall, solidly built, and might've seemed like a young Valkyrie if her face had even a trace of animation. She'd been a very smart, normal girl until eighth grade and then something had happened to her—perhaps only she knew what; her records were incomplete.

  The upper middle square contained the other ragemeister, Anthony P. Nakanelua of Honolulu, tagged Kekipi. This one was big, appeared more Samoan than Hawaiian, and in real life his fury was concealed behind a fat and dull facade. He probably wasn't at his best because it was only 3:30 am in Honolulu. His proxy wasn't human. On ViewNet, he was a four-armed man-sized cobra with a foot-long tongue, constantly tasting the air.

  The pathetic boy in the lower middle, Daniel Greenburg, had skipped two grades before he'd been crippled by some experience so hideous, he'd wound up in a nearly constant panic. He was only fourteen and had the full-body cramp of a mouse blinded by headlights—no deer could've looked so scared. On ViewNet, he was buried in silver armor and his handle was White Night. Along with Madeline, he was a mystery victim. He wouldn't tell a soul what had terrified him so much.

  Upper right, Chris Lowry's permanent grin was a rictus of hysteria, sickening to look at. His proxy wore a far more pleasant expression: Jack Nickolson as The Joker. Lowry's tag was, get this, Buddha.

  I'd saved the worst for last. Elaine Carpenter's green eyes gave nothing away. She was a thin pale girl with a short nose and wide lips twisted into a subtle sneer. Her proxy was male: Sherlock Holmes with deerstalker hat, pipe, and a sneer that matched her own. Strangely, her tag was Cher.

  Q-Ball, Madeline, Kekipi, White Night, Buddha, and Cher. To break up routine, every session they'd be seated in a random order, but the same crew would return day after day. I shook my head. The money that taxpayers were wasting on these sunken wrecks! Hell with it, time to stop procrastinating....

  I pressed the controller's green button and ViewNet obliged by streaming an elaborate image into my optic nerves: a small classroom complete with a wall-clock, a chalkboard, windows revealing someone's conception of a typical schoolyard, and a row of bizarre students seated at old-fashioned desks. At home or wherever they were incarcerated, my flock was actually seated; I could tell from the postures. I hoped they'd obeyed instructions to be in a darkened room. Kekipi was fidgeting.

  Delighted with the image qualit
y, I double-clicked the green button to let ViewNet do its thing for the students and watched their real faces. The Broms girl and Cher showed no reaction. The other kids stared at each other with a mixture of surprise plus individual quirks such as hostility, terror, or contempt. Buddha was the only one smiling.

  "Good morning,” I announced with a bucket of fake cheer. “I'm Mr. Phillips. Welcome to Last Chance Senior High School.” Fat Chance Senior High....

  "I hear you, but where the fuck are you?” Q-Ball demanded. “And what—"

  "He's in Chicago,” Cher interrupted, exhaling a blue cloud of ViewNet smoke.

  How the hell had she figured that out? Being from Shreveport, I don't exactly have a Windy City accent. “Q-Ball,” I said mildly, “keep it clean. I'll make myself visible soon."

  I wanted the students to react to each other's proxies before they got a look at mine. That way I might pick up cues to help me best tailor my appearance for each student.

  "Ho, Phillips,” Q-Ball continued, cranking up the decibels and ignoring Cher. “Suppose you say what's the fuck's goin’ on. I got no bug hat, so how come assholes like the snake and Sir Lose-a-lot be poppin’ in my hang?"

  I frowned. “Someone must've explained this setup to you already. Perhaps you don't know how to listen. Did you hear me telling you to keep it clean?"

  "Yeah, I heard. Suppose you come over to my hang right now and say again."

  His proxy appeared calm, but in real life the boy was raging, pacing in circles, punching the air. I kept quiet and waited for his curiosity to build.

  "Nobody told nothin’ to me,” he finally muttered.

  "Show of hands, everyone,” I announced. “Anyone besides Q-Ball confused?” To my surprise, Buddha and White Night raised their arms. Possibly, Madeline's hand twitched. An uncomfortable thought lumbered my way: I was just the most recent link in a chain of people who'd written these kids off.

  "This isn't virtual-reality in the usual sense, class. A few weeks ago, some doctor examined each of you then gave you an injection or maybe something to drink. Right?"

  Q-Ball rolled his eyes. “She use a needle long as my dick. I asked what fo’ and the bitch mouth off, said it would ‘improve my attitude.’”

  I nodded although he couldn't see it. “When you alienate people, guess who loses out? She was supposed to explain that you were getting tailored bacteria designed to carry microscopic transceivers specifically to your optic nerves and slightly larger transceivers to wind up under your skin all over your body."

  "We're all on ViewNet?” White Night broke in nervously, but less so than his previous evaluators would've predicted. That armor seemed to be helping him.

  "ViewNet, exactly. VR isn't good enough for this classroom.” I didn't explain. To do my job properly, I needed access to the real facial expressions, voices, and body language of my students. The subcutaneous implants had multiple functions.

  White Night's armored head swiveled around. “I can't believe this! I can see everyone except you so clearly. I thought that companies like Larger Than Life charge a fortune for this kind of—"

  "It's not free, that's a fact. And I don't think Larger than Life or Imagine Yourself offers proxies this good. Every one of you has a high-level e-con designed by the top banana: Enhancement Incorporated.” White Night and Buddha glanced around with renewed interest. “And because we need to hear each other, we've all been given the gold package...” at 213,000 bucks a pop! “...which includes transceivers for our hearing nerves and custom-designed e-cons. If you want, you can make the illusion even more convincing by closing your eyes, or just try to disregard your actual surroundings.

  "Of course, we don't have any kind of ‘feelie’ set-up. But VR touch-back is limited anyway unless you've got the bucks for a full harness.” Enhancement's gold package was cheap compared to the price of a full harness.

  To my surprise, Madeline had frowned when I used the word “feelie.” Coincidence?

  "Any questions? No? Then let's handle the formalities."

  I did an old-fashioned roll call, which seemed silly with only six students, but it introduced the kids to each other without risking potentially ugly interactions. Q-Ball refused to respond when I called his tag, but I was pleased when Madeline managed a faint nod at her name.

  Class, I decided, was going remarkably well so far. No one was freaking and I'd only been threatened once, and only by implication.

  Pressing the tab key on my console, the OSP shifted to display a submenu of twenty possible e-cons I could use for myself. For Q-Ball, I went with one of my favorites: Joe Louis, the legendary boxer who looked tough as hell, but at the same time, had a rather sweet face. For Madeline and White Night, I choose the meekest-looking actor who'd ever lived: Wally Cox. Kekipi would see Bruce Lee; Buddha would be dealing with the sad-faced clown, Emmett Kelly, who'd act as a kind of visual antidote—I hoped.

  I had a hard time settling on a proxy for Cher. One idea was calling up a new image: Watson to Cher's Holmes; I was sure Enhancement had variants of Watson available. But I didn't wish to appear in any way subservient. Finally, I chose a rather spooky image, a genderless humanoid whose face was gray and smooth with mirrors for eyes and no mouth. I used the keypad to enter my selections and pressed the tab key again to restore the student images.

  "Can everyone see me now?” I asked, observing the real faces closely.

  Q-Ball grunted, Madeline blinked, Buddha giggled hyena-style, Cher rolled her eyes, Kekipi waved a forked tongue at me, and White Night said “sure,” accepting the Wally Cox proxy with only a few tremors, low on the Richter scale.

  "Most of you,” I said, “ah, bypassed Junior High so we've miles of ground to cover this semester. Our subjects are science, math, history, English literature, and we're going to pick out a foreign language to work on. Several of you already know much of the material, but I don't think you'll get bored. Turns out that ViewNet has advantages that no normal school can match."

  "Such as?” Cher broke in, squeezing two tons of doubt into two words.

  I smiled before remembering that the expression would only come across as a bizarre distortion in the proxy she was seeing. “Patience. Here's how class is going to work. Every school day, we'll work on three of our five subjects, dropping one the next day and adding a new one. That way, we'll keep our topics in constant rotation, but cover each subject three times a week."

  White Night raised a hand and I pointed to him and said, “Go."

  "I want to know about those advantages, too."

  "I'm planning on showing you. For science, we'll be studying basic physics, paleontology, astronomy, and if we cover enough material, some marine biology.” I glanced at my OSP. If anyone felt the least interest in the fields I'd mentioned, they were hiding it. I chuckled to myself. “All right. Let's see what ViewNet offers us in paleontology, for example. I wouldn't lean too far back in your chairs right about now."

  I pressed function “one” on my pad, then confirmed with “enter.” The classroom faded out, leaving us in the midst of a foggy swamp, the chairs and desks resting impossibly on the wet surface.

  Kekipi half stood then slowly eased into his seat as if trying to cover for losing his cool. White Night's helmet was whipping around as if something might be about to pounce on him. Here, his behavior seemed sensible.

  "Welcome to the Cretaceous,” I announced. “Anyone care to see some dinosaurs up close and personal?"

  "No!” White Night blurted.

  "Well, you're in luck. That thing coming up from behind you is no dinosaur.” I opened White Night's private channel. “Don't worry, Daniel. Remember that this is just an illusion. If it gets too intense, give me a wink and I'll reduce the image-strength for you."

  "You can see my real face?"

  Bright boy. “More or less. We don't have a camera spying on you, but Enhancement has a recent model of your face and several thousands of the implants you took in with your milkshake allow ViewNet to constantly update yo
ur expression in a special display I can watch."

  "Wow. Guess I shouldn't go picking my nose."

  I laughed. “Good plan. Tell you what: let's give everybody else a real scare, okay? Just wink if you want out."

  "Okay."

  I reestablished the general link just as a long ripple caused by something large approaching from beneath the surface washed past the desks and under my feet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a head longer than my body thrust its way into the air, swamp-water and muck pouring from its vast open jaws.

  Everyone, including White Night and Madeline, jumped up and turned to face the incredible animal. Kekipi tried to pick up his chair, doubtless for use as a weapon, but that wasn't part of ViewNet programming and none of his four hands could get a grip.

  "You lied, Philips,” Q-Ball shouted, his voice fear-transposed up a fifth. “Sure as shit, that's a fucking dinosaur!"

  "Not at all. Keep watching."

  One big green eye gave Q-Ball a hungry glare. The head tilted level and vanished beneath the surface. A moment later, the mottled back of a scaly body emerged briefly, then the muscular tail. A huge air-bubble popped from the slime and the monster was gone.

  Buddha stared at the widening ripples. “Christ! What was—was that some kind of giant alligator?” For the first time since I'd seen him, his smile had shrunk to a smirk.

  I applauded. “You just met Phobosucus, Buddha, the ‘terrible crocodile’ of about 70 million years ago. Fifty feet long! Probably a sea animal, so Enhancement might've taken artistic liberties by putting one in a swamp. Kekipi, were you actually thinking about clobbering something like that with a chair?"

  The snake body twitched weirdly and all four arms lifted and fell. It took me a moment to realize that Kekipi had shrugged. No shoulders. I was pleased he didn't blow up at me.

  "Where'd you get the graphics?” Cher asked. On her real face, the glaze of superiority had been cracked by interest.

  "The Discovery Channel made the original animation and Enhancement converted it to ViewNet 3D."