“In a nutshell, my friend, you can’t,” I replied, working up an angle to get his head in the game. “I think, therefore I am, as Descartes famously put it in 1644. Since then, really no progress.”
“Mmmmm,” was all Martin could add philosophically as he looked skywards. “So how can I be sure that you’re not just some gameworld zombie?”
“Again, my friend, you can’t,” I replied. “Although from my point of view, the issue is rather more about you.” I laughed and he joined in. “But if we’re worrying about whether people around us are mindless zombies, then the question is rather moot, no?”
Martin smiled at that, wiping his greasy face with the back of one hand. Before we could continue, Vicious rode up. Vicious was my best friend Sid’s proxxi. A seventies British punk rocker, in his best pasty whiteness, looked awfully comical with knobby knees poking out from under Mongol battle armor. The leather helmet must have been hell on his spiky hair.
A big smile spread across my face.
Vicious could sense my amusement and grimaced, but gamely soldiered on. Trying to keep in character, he leaned towards Martin and said, “Sire, Master Sid asked me to bring you your mount and...ah...ah fook it, mate, yer horse is ’ere.”
Right behind him rode up my proxxi Robert, also bringing my mount. Wisely, he said nothing as he tossed me the reigns, looking towards Vicious and smiling. Vicious scowled back, and they both trotted off to get Sid and themselves ready.
I sheathed my saber, Martin dropped the remains of his meal on the floor, and we stood to get ready.
“I mean, I know this is a gameworld,” said Martin over the top of his horse, “but don’t you ever get the feeling, back in the world, that all of this is impossible?”
I laughed.
Back in the world—now there was an idea fraught with complications. In a cosmos already sporting an infinite number of universes, in just one of these we’d begun spawning our own infinity of digital universes. Collectively, they’d begun calling the whole jumble the multiverse, on the assumption that infinity and infinity overlapped somewhere.
If there were an infinite number of universes, then logically one of them had to have exactly the train of events that an arbitrary gameworld, like the one we were in now, had going on. So when we flitted into a gameworld, in a sense we were creating windows into the parallel universe the simulation was tracking.
According to some, there was an equivalency of actually being there if a conscious observer couldn’t distinguish the difference. So, the question of the day was this: were we just creating simulated worlds, or were we actually tunneling past the event horizon of our own universe to create portals into parallel universes?
Perception was reality. Was therefore, reality equivalent to perception? A slippery slope if there ever was one. Thus the question of this world being real or not was rather more troubling than it may have seemed.
I leaned forward to pat and stroke my horse’s neck, calming it as it strained around to look at me. It knew today was going to be bloody. Taking a grip on my tall wooden-framed saddle, with one foot in a stirrup, I returned to Martin’s question.
“So what exactly do you mean—is all of this impossible?”
I knew it would be impossible to win this battle without settling whatever was on his mind. I looked towards him as I swung up onto my horse.
“Look, I’m not stupid, I know all the stuff about the infinite number of alternate bubbly universes, this one springing from that, all spawning into each other,” replied Martin. “Whatever. It still doesn’t answer my real question.”
I settled comfortably into my saddle and we started off. The Mongolian saddle was designed to allow the horse to choose its canter, leaving the rider free to deal with other tasks—it was more of a platform than a saddle, a fighting platform. These guys had been way ahead of their time. I twisted around to check my quiver of arrows.
“Which is?”
“Why something and not nothing?”
My patience was beginning, as often with him, to wear thin. Why was it that human beings had this God-shaped hole in their heads that needed to be filled when the mind grabbed at straws? God certainly wasn’t a part of my life, not anymore.
“What’s going on, you caught religion or something?” I asked, catching glimpses of the Mongol warriors praying to their shamanistic gods as we began trotting through the yurt city.
Rising smoke from the cooking fires enveloped us, and the place was thick with the tension of the coming bloodshed. I raised my fist in a show of power and victory to those that turned to watch me pass. I felt suddenly angry.
“Do you know how stupid it is that you’d believe in God?”
Martin shrunk away at the criticism. “What, just because you don’t, you think everyone else is stupid? So you think mum joining the Elèutheros is stupid? Sid is a member, do you think he’s stupid?”
I sighed. It wasn’t his fault.
“No, that’s not it. Sid’s different. And don’t drag mum into this…”
Our mother had been disappearing further and further into her religion, even as the technology had sped further ahead. The Christian Elèutheros sect had gained an incredibly strong following on Atopia, pitching itself against the libertarian ideals that Atopia was founded upon, against what they perceived as the ultimate decay of society. Sid was a part of the Elèutheros hacking community, a somewhat different side to the sect than my mother. I didn’t quite understand it all.
“You always treat everyone like they’re stupid,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Anyway, that doesn’t really answer anything, it’s just replacing one non-starter for another.” Martin shrugged. “It’s kind of giving up, religion, isn’t it?”
We trotted along for a bit. I said nothing, letting him finish his thoughts while I calmed my own down.
“I guess it would be comforting, though, to give in to faith, especially if you really believed in some sort of supernatural evil,” Martin said reflectively as we reached the outskirts of our camp. “But really, what’s it all for?”
“Now you sound like you’re talking about the meaning of life,” I replied.
Crap, he was all over the place and I needed his head in the game, not distracted with metaphysics. He’d been terrible in the gameworlds lately, and I could see why with all this stuff floating around in his head.
I checked my dimstim stats and my fans weren’t digging the philosophical talk. I’d better cut this short and get to the blood and guts.
“Martin,” I said, turning to him and smiling with brotherly love, “I will share with you my personal philosophy on the topic.”
He shrugged and smiled as we bounced up and down. I began my performance.
“First off, you can’t answer the creation question. You need to double think it out of your brain.”
We trotted along the front line of my amassing warriors while I let this settle. Martin took out one of his daggers to inspect it.
“Second, the only meaning to life is the one that you give it,” I continued, “and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
Martin considered this, nonplussed as he tested the edge of his dagger. I’d saved the best bit for last.
“Finally,” I opined grandly, “we will never resolve our existential angst in our identity world, and this is why we play out here.”
“What, like an escape?” he said, crinkling his nose, rubbing the dagger against his stubble.
“Not just an escape, my friend, it goes much deeper than that. Out there, at home,” I said, pointing towards the sky as if we’d descended from it, which in a sense we had, “you can’t get a satisfactory answer as to whether there is a Creator or if there is a meaning to it all. If you really sit down and think about it, it’ll just give you a headache, right?”