The Magic Eye of Simulation

The contents of the vacuum chamber look the same as they did three months ago; as clear and empty as air. It is emptier than air, but to the naked eye, indistinguishable from it. My brother stares into it like it is the Mona Lisa.

“Anything, Brett?” I say.

“It’s beginning,” he replies, teeth gritted.

The chamber is glass and spherical with a radius of around two feet. It is propped up by dark steel legs in a dimly lit room with walls layered four times over with black acrylic paint. I gaze into it, but as much I try to make substance of the nothingness, I see only black, the black of the walls behind.

“I’m not seeing anything,” I say.

Brett is fixed in his seat, eyelids lowered and trance-like. “The target region should be reaching disruption,” he assures me.

The chamber’s outer surface has nine inlets fitted with tubes firing various atomic particles to a single fixed point in its center. Each tube is fed from highly powered particle energizers adjacent to the chamber, and screens are placed opposite them to mop up the scattering of rogue particles. A deep and constant hum resounds through the room like the haunting choirs of the underworld.

“Are things at full power, Brett?”

He remains focused, squinting.

“Brett, are these…”

“…God, no. Not even 50 %. I’m a little nervous that I could bring the whole building down if I crank these babies up too high. If you’re going to stay, let me watch… and you watch too.”

Twenty minutes I've been here, and already he is getting pissed off with me. This work has dragged on for nearly a decade, but to Brett, every hour is as important as the last. I received a voicemail this morning with the promise that today would be more exciting than any day, previous.

“OK, I’m watching,” I say.

I share my gaze between the chamber and my brother. He looks tired. The creases in his forehead have deepened since the last time I saw him, and they detail a pale face, whitened by the hours spent in this room. An astronaut in his prime, Brett turned to particle physics in recent decades. His brilliance laid the foundations for an endless stream of funding and access to the most cutting-edge technology available. The money that once built him a rocket has now provided him with this dark room and the vacuum chamber it houses.

Two more minutes pass. “Brett, maybe the power isn’t high enough…”

“...Ugh, fine,” he snaps, flicking a switch above to his left, turning the equipment off. The hum drops to silence and we both exhale. “I am so close, bro.”

My brother believes that we, us, people, all things, are in a simulation; that our universe is a computer simulation generated by another higher civilization. And maybe I do too. But where Brett’s speculation differs from mine, is that he believes the signs of the simulation can be found in the fabric of space; not space up there, the space in front of our eyes, the nothingness. He believes that fabric can be distorted or ruptured, uncovering evidence of a code underlying everything we see, hear, feel, and smell.

“This routine is burning you out," I say. "Take a week off. The simulation will still be there when you return.”

“It’s not just a case of rejoining the work a week later. This isn’t just physics, this is focus. All this tech is important, yeah, but someone must be there to discern the output. I have seen glimmers of it, signs that the simulation is there, but the parameters of these damn energizers haven’t been right. What matters is I have learned what I am looking for. I don’t want that receptivity to wane.”

“If your eyes are optimized, how close is the tech?”

“Close. These energizers have been modified with beams of quarks, leptons, neutrinos, all focused on the area of a pinprick. Streams of energy packets, that size and of that concentration turn space inside out, they illuminate it. This universe goes deeper and I have seen it.”

I’d heard the method to this madness many times, over dinners, glasses of wine, on the bus; that if the universe is run on a code of some kind, it could be disrupted by an anomalous cocktail of particles and activity, unforeseen by the hypothetical programmer, much like a computer virus. It was messy science, but Brett always assured me it was just a case of landing on the right blend.

“But what have you seen? I don’t understand…”

“…The fuzz of the code. Everything we see has a code underneath it; it just has to be revealed. If you dig deep enough into your computer you will see binary, not Windows or World of Warcraft. We are digging deeper into the code of our reality.”

“Yeah, but I’ll ask again… what have you seen? Binary?”

“No, it’s a fuzz. It’s like trying to look into a Magic Eye image. You squint and squint and move your head back and forth. You can’t quite see the detailed image you’re supposed to see but the layered blur that pops up momentarily promises you something is there. That’s what I have seen. It’s a fuzz. The fuzz of the code. Anyway, I need a smoke.”

***

Brett didn’t smoke until his fifties. Stupid, if you ask me, but he argues two or three a day won’t hurt, and it helps him concentrate. I have been in double figures, daily, since college, so I can't judge. He rambles in my ear as we head up the corridor, talking religion vs science, creativity in research, and making a difference. When he speaks in full flow, his accent honors our rural Virginia upbringing more than it did ten years ago. The college years and a career in the Space Corps tuned it temporarily to something more transatlantic. I prefer it back this way; he sounds more like the brother I know.

The walls of the Space Corps Institute are decorated with photographs and portraits of legends. Astronauts, Physicists, Chemists, Computer Scientists. Brett is on the right, halfway up our route. He is photographed in a spacesuit rather than lab attire of any kind. His helmet is off and underneath his left arm. Behind him is a desert landscape, hills with patches of green scattered there and about. Brett doesn’t acknowledge the picture as we pass, so I do. “Great spot they picked for your photograph?”

“What? Main hall? They’re all down here.”

“No, I mean the backdrop, the landscapes.”

“Oh yeah… The beautiful world we live in, huh?”

“And you took it by the scruff of the neck.”

“Ah, I did some cool stuff, maybe, but not all I wanted to do. I never learned to paint, write a symphony, or write a novel.”

Barely anyone can paint these days. It’s all sharks in oil and bananas taped to walls. And not everyone has a novel in them.”

“You did… lots of them.”

“And it was hard work. It’s not all quills and voiceovers backed by medieval music.”

“Is it not?” he says, rolling his eyes. I just want to do something.”

“But Brett, you went to the moon.”

“I know, but it was all part of a plan. I followed protocol. I was a cog. There is nothing out there showing what makes me tick. I haven’t created anything. In that chamber, I am creating something for everyone to see.”

We reach the building’s entrance and each light a cigarette. Over the doorway is an archway of red brick, owing to the old exterior of the university building it once was. I feel the late November chill in my sweater, but Brett smokes away in his T-shirt like it’s the middle of July.”

“You see with simulation, bro,” he says, the smoke barely leaving his mouth, “that is a paradigm shift. It won’t just open a world of physics, it will change the way people perceive the world we are in. Let go of old ideas and superstitions.”

I nod as he looks to the floor pondering his exclamation. This is a regular interlude with Brett. Periods of silence as he churns a previous point, forcing me to visualize his churning mind.

A staff member in uniform, likely a caretaker or cleaner, exits the building and walks between us. His grey jacket is dusty, but his shirt is neatly buttoned, accompanied by a tie, his hair parted at the side.

“Oh, hi Brett. You’re working Sunday again.”

“Hi Lionel,” Brett answers. “This is my brother.” Before Lionel can say hello, Brett adds “…and how do you feel about it?”

“About what?” he replies, looking at me. I shrug.

“Simulation theory?” Brett continues.

“Oh, I know you do cool things in that lab of yours, but I keep to myself. The math is over my head.”

“Well, how do you feel about A.I.?”

“Hmmm… I think it’s scary, the way the internet churns out images and stories. The other day, my daughter played me Wonderwall, sung by Freddie Mercury on YouTube. I mean, that song was written after Freddie died.”

“You’re right, it is scary,” Brett concurs. “And how far do you think it could go?”

“Well, I don’t know. Living creatures, that talk and think like us. Like Terminators or Haley Joel Osment as that robot kid.”

“Yes, maybe. But how about if those living creatures, as you put it, were to exist in a computer program, as opposed to something you can touch, or grab hold of?”

“Like that film, Free Guy, with Ryan Reynolds?”

“Yes, and the characters in the simulation wouldn’t know.”

“Suppose that could be possible. There are very advanced video games out there.”

“It’s a very important yes/no question, Lionel. Do you think we will ever create a program like that?”

“OK, then yes,” Lionel says with a frustration that Brett misses.

“Then it is important to realize that if you think it is possible then it is way more likely that we, ourselves, are living in a simulation, rather than a naturally occurring universe. You see, if we can simulate a universe then it must be assumed that the inhabitants of any existing universe also could and that they would simulate one more than once, maybe millions of times over. Then each of those simulated universes could simulate universes within their simulated world and so on.”

“I guess that makes sense, Brett,” Lionel says, as he backs away. “Gives me something to think over on the way to church. I’ll see you, tomorrow.“ Lionel gives me a polite glance and walks away.

“You shouldn’t preach so much, Brett,” I say. “I doubt Oppenheimer ranted to his neighbor about the atomic bomb.”

Brett pulls the lighter from his pocket and flicks it on with his thumb.

“You see this flame, bro? It’s beautiful, right?”

“I guess…”

“…I know you think it’s beautiful. I’ve read your stuff. But the thing is… you look at this flame and see all sorts. You can weave it into images and tales. You see Dante’s Inferno, the great fire of London, or that forest fire that scared off Shere Khan. All I see is fire. I can see that it burns brightly and that it’s full of color, and energy maybe, but that’s it.”

“We’re not too different…”

“…But with his project, no imagination is necessary. It’s physics and waiting. I report what I see. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever my skillset is, it has led me to this point. That chamber is a chance for me to create something. I know I’m really only unveiling something, but to the naked eye, I am creating. When man first discovered fire, no one tapped him on the shoulder and said ‘Well… ya know fire always existed, don’t ya?’ I’m creating fire, bro… Divine fire.”

Brett smiles as he stares into the flame. He likes to throw in religious terminology when trying to rouse me, even if it doesn’t quite fit. Not that I am devout, but he knows my writing has lured me to a certain sensibility that has escaped him.

***

Back at the laboratory, Brett’s hand shakes as he unlocks the door. He flicks a switch and the equipment hums, as if growling at being left alone.

“I’m going all in this time,” Brett says as he sits down. “I have my particle ratios right, so I am hitting the vacuum with everything this gear has.”

“Is that safe?” I say, perching myself on the seat.

“Ah, what’s a power cut, when you are changing the world?”

Brett's eyes twinkle. He turns several dials, and the growl intensifies, raising in pitch.

“Ok, Brett, what am I looking for here?”

“Think Magic Eye.”

Several minutes of silence pass and the hum resonates in my chest; the sensation steals my attention more than it should. I often wonder what Brett thinks during these sessions; a man who has blasted through the atmosphere, seen the Earth from orbit, and landed feet first on the surface of the moon. He is infected with an unwavering curiosity for the unknown. It’s no coincidence that Brett was the first to show me a Magic Eye picture. He handed me a book, way back, saying, “Pegasus, right there.” I thought he had the wrong page open before he explained.

"Hey Brett, do you remember the first time you sho..."

“I see it,” Brett whispers from the side of his mouth as if the phenomenon were a mouse not to be startled. I continue to look but am distracted by the awe in Brett’s eyes. I glance back into the chamber. The clear vacuum is still that; clear, but it is becoming strangely arresting.

“You see it?” he whispers, more quietly than before.

I squint my eyes and tilt my head. The point of focus begins to distort as if folding in on itself. “I see something.”

“Keep looking,” Brett says, abandoning his whisper.

The center of the chamber wraps and folds. The distortion expands several more inches in all directions.

“Oh boy, Bro, this is untrodden territory.”

The folding and wrapping become frantic, and pockets of space spin and swivel, colored only by the black of the walls. Brett clutches my arm, but I am too frozen to react. The distortion collapses and, like a black orchid, it reopens, and the chamber is filled with a fuzz, thick like cotton candy.

“That’s it. That’s the code,” Brett says gripping my arm more tightly. We pause and breathe. The fuzz lightly pulsates, as if following our breath.

“I think it can feel us, Brett.”

“It’s not feeling anything. It is writing us. We are it. The code is us.”

As a shudder of awe passes through my body, the fuzz corresponds with a swirl, as if illustrating my inner being. “So, Brett, if this is code, then someone somewhere is monitoring it, right?”

“Right.”

“Then ask it a question.”

“Ok simulator," Brett begins, "pulse once for yes, twice for no. Are we in a simulation?”

One cascade fills the volume of the chamber. Brett continues.

“Simulator, do you think you are a simulation?”

The fuzz repeats another single cascade, and I take over. “Do you know you’re in a simulation?”

A third single cascade fires.

“Simulator, is my name, Tony?” I ask.

One cascade.

“Simulator, is my name Elvis Presley?”

Two cascades.

“Brett, you say everything is simulated? That means they can track our thoughts?”

“That’s right, let me think something,” Brett says.

As two cascades pass, Brett’s face drops.

“What did you ask?” I say frantically.

“I asked if Elvis was still alive.”

“Damn, Brett, your scientific inquiry is on point.”

I focus my mind and think the words, do we live on Mars?

Two cascades.

Brett wraps his hands behind his neck. I see the fuzz depicting his joy, cascading in and out, shooting in patches like a fireworks display. Brett turns to the fuzz and catches his breath. “Simulator, can you show us more?” As he finishes the sentence the fuzz collapses to a point and vanishes.

“What happened?” I ask. “Where did it go?”

“Hmmm,” says Brett, “everything is still on in the room.”

“Yeah, I can hear. Where did it go?” I ask again.

“They fixed it. They shut down.”

“They shut down?”

“They shut down.”

“Oh… they shut down.”

Brett flicks off the switch and the room goes quiet. “You saw it, the simulation is real,” he says.

“I saw it.”

“We can get it back, maybe not the same way, but tweaking the parameters will catch them out. People need to see this.”

As we sit quietly, Brett reflects. It is impossible to discern whether this reflection is on the last ten minutes, the last ten years, or his whole life. I remember the first time he brought up simulation theory to me. He had been reading an article or watching a presentation, I can’t remember which. He gushed of a new era; ideas that would put people on the same page; and show them they wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. It was a scientific answer to creation, and he desperately wanted a piece.

“You definitely saw it, right?” Brett asks again.

“I saw it.”

"We are simulated; we are code. Thousands of years of fear, obedience, and disagreements are over. Do you think the world is ready for this? To let go of all those ideas. Can the world deal with this much change?”

“But, Brett, the simulation you uncovered; the code is being watched and manipulated. What is the difference?”