Continue Online (Book 1, Memories) by Stephan Morse Page A

computer generated fiancée dressed in a frilly
piece of clothing made me smile. That was not like her at all. A
sundress at most and even those were rare. She waved as we made eye
contact. That was new. Maybe there was a patch without my knowledge.
The ARC was good at doing that when I looked away for too long. I
waved back.
    She
held out a hand. I shrugged, put away the card in a pocket and
danced. Happily I put the confusing mystery out of my mind for a bit.
The song changed to something brisker. Soon I was swinging her around
in spins, dips, and other moves practiced over endless lonely hours.
Then our dance was something slower. We danced close. Her head lay
against my chest rocking to the music of another century.
    "I
miss you," I whispered, trying not to feel wounded. Dancing like
this made me feel like she was still with me. Losing my sense of
place was too easy. Some mornings I woke up thinking the whole
terrible event had been a dream.
    "I
know, Grant." A whisper came from her sounding exactly like
every memory that had haunted me over the years.
    I
pulled away in confusion. This program never spoke back. It wasn't
designed to. It couldn't. I had uttered that confession time and time
again over the years and never once heard anything. The computerized
image of my fiancée smiled, looked at the doorway a program
shouldn't realize was there. A heartbeat later she went still,
completely lifeless and dulled in color.
    "Babe?"
Today was not my day. This was one emotional sledgehammer after
another.
    Crashing
came from the doorway back in my Atrium. Then something like a metal
pan spinning to a slow stop. Next was glass hitting the floor and
shattering. I backed up slowly to the door behind me while staring at
the stilled image of my fiancée. Music dimmed from a signal I
never sent.
    Something
wonky was going on.
    At
the door, I turned around and tried to put the haunting portrayal
behind me. To move forward and face the next problem instead of
becoming stuck like I had in the past. That was what my last year of
therapy focused on. Move forward, plan accordingly, don’t get
stuck in the mire behind.
    My
Atrium, a virtual replication of my house, was an even bigger mess
than it had been. Now way more than packing peanuts scattered across
the floor. Items were knocked off of shelves and dishes splayed all
over. Normally all of this was kept in perfect order. Default Atrium
programming didn't allow broken glass.
    I
had no clue where to even find a broom and dustpan. A garbage bin was
easy. The Atrium had one for programs you no longer wanted. Users
could pull a program down from the shelf and toss it away. Digital
confirmation of an action time-honored among computers. I tried to
use pieces of cardboard to clean up the shattered glass. It went
terribly. This place couldn't stay messy like this, though.
Otherwise, once I logged in, the Atrium might try to subject me to
the simulated pain of stepping on shards of glass.
    At
least it might. That should have been beyond the Atrium's
programming, but here I was cleaning up shattered dishes after
hearing a computer program talk when it wasn't programmed to. Worse,
the computer had used a near perfect replica of her voice.
    "ARC."
I triggered the machine response.
    "Awaiting
input."
    "Can
you replay what happened here?"
    "Negative."
There was even an error bonk of noise. "New program interference
detected. Alternate patterns have been input. Scans show all levels
of local software have been impacted."
    "I
only have one piece of software," I muttered in response.
Everything else was deleted except a few house programs.
    I
guess the van had Hal Pal and a few simulated board games. Those were
on a separate network thankfully. Hal Pal's programming was so
insanely far beyond me that the thought of changing it was
frightening.
    "Is
it a virus?" Worry flooded me as the thought occurred far too
late.
    "Scans
confirm this is not the work of a virus."
    "Are
you sure?" I