Cyberpunk

by Victoria Blake

  networks, and PS 12-148-D, the trafficking in unlicensed commerce. Your

  arrest number is 063-08-2043716. Confirm receipt of this communication

  immediately upon viewing and report in realbody for incarceration at Precinct

  Station IN28 in Indianapolis no later than 4:00 p.m. standard time tomorrow.

  You may bring an attorney. End of message. Have a nice day.”

  She heard the door open behind her. Nancy stood there with her walker.

  “What are you doing out here?” she said. In a moment the hospice beds in

  the living room and their unfortunate occupants vanished. “No,” said Nancy,

  “bring them back.” Victor came from the bedroom, a bulging duffle bag over

  his shoulder. He leaned down and folded Nancy into his arms, and she began

  to moan.

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  DAVID MARUSEK

  Victor turned to Zoranna and said, “It was nice to finally meet you, Zoe.”

  “Save your breath,” said Zoranna, “and save your money. The next time

  you see me—and there will be a next time—I’ll bring an itemized bill for you to pay. And you will pay it.”

  Victor Vole smiled sadly and turned to walk down the corridor.

  Here she was still in APRT 24, not in Budapest, not in the South of France.

  With Victor’s banishment, her sister’s teetering state of health had finally

  collapsed. Nothing Zoranna did or the autodoc prescribed seemed to help. At

  first Zoranna tried to coax Nancy out of the apartment for a change of scene, a breath of fresh air. She rented a wheelchair for a ride up to a park or arboretum (and she ordered Bug to explore the feasibility of using it to kidnap her). But day and night Nancy lay in her recliner and refused to leave the apartment.

  So Zoranna reinitialized the houseputer and had Bug project live opera,

  ballet, and figure-skating into the room. But Nancy deleted them and locked

  Zoranna out of the system. It would have been child’s play for Bug to override

  the lockout, but Zoranna let it go. Instead, she surrounded her sister with

  gaily colored dried flowers, wall hangings, and hand-woven rugs that she

  purchased at expensive boutiques high in the tower. But Nancy turned her

  back on everything and swiveled her recliner to face her little shrine and its

  picture of St. Camillus.

  So Zoranna had Bug order savory breads and wholesome soups with fresh

  vegetables and tender meat, but Nancy lost her appetite and quit eating

  altogether. Soon she lost the strength even to stay awake, and she drifted in

  and out of consciousness.

  They skirmished like this for a week until the autodoc notified Nancy that

  a bed awaited her at the Indiana State Hospice at Bloomington. Only then

  did Zoranna acknowledge Death’s solid claim on her last living relative.

  Defeated, she stood next to Nancy’s recliner and said, “Please don’t die.”

  Nancy, enthroned in pillows and covers, opened her eyes.

  “I beg you, Nancy, come to the clinic with me.”

  “Pray for me,” Nancy said.

  Zoranna looked at the shrine of the saint with its flat picture and empty

  votive cups. “You really loved that, didn’t you, working as a hospicer.” When

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  GETTING TO KNOW YOU

  her sister made no reply, she continued, “I don’t see why you didn’t join real

  hospicers.”

  Nancy glared at her, “I was a real hospicer!”

  Encouraged by her strong response, Zoranna said, “Of course you were.

  And I’ll bet there’s a dozen legitimate societies out there that would be

  willing to hire you.”

  Nancy gazed longingly at the saint’s picture. “I should say it’s a bit late for that now.”

  “It’s never too late. That’s your depression talking. You’ll feel different

  when you’re young and healthy again.”

  Nancy retreated into the fortress of her pillows. “Good-bye, sister,” she said

  and closed her eyes. “Pray for me.”

  “Right,” Zoranna said. “Fine.” She turned to leave but paused at the door

  where the cartons of heirlooms were stacked. “I’ll send someone down for

  these,” she said, although she wasn’t sure if she even wanted them. Bug, she tongued, call the hotel concierge.

  There was no reply.

  Bug? She glanced at her belt to confirm that the valet was still active.

  Allow me to introduce myself, said a deep, melodious voice in her ear. I’m Nicholas, and I’m at your service.

  Who? Where’s Bug?

  Bug no longer exists, said the voice. It successfully completed its imprinting and fashioned an interface persona—that would be me—based upon your personal

  tastes.

  Whoever you are, this isn’t the time, Zoranna tongued. Get off the line.

  I’ve notified the concierge and arranged for shipping, said Nicholas. And I’ve booked a first-class car for you and Nancy to the Cozumel clinic.

  So Bug had finally converted, and at just the wrong time. In case you haven’t been paying attention, Nick, she tongued, Nancy’s not coming.

  Nonsense, chuckled Nicholas. Knowing you, you’re bound to have some trick up your sleeve.

  This clearly was not Bug. Well, you’re wrong. I’m plumb out of ideas. Only a miracle could save her.

  A miracle, of course. Brilliant! You’ve done it again, Zoe. One faux miracle coming right up.

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  DAVID MARUSEK

  There was a popping sound. The votive cups were replenished with large,

  fat candles that ignited one by one of their own accord. Nancy glanced at

  them and glowered suspiciously at Zoranna.

  You don’t really expect her to fall for this, Zoranna tongued.

  Why not? She thinks you’re locked out of the houseputer, remember? Besides, Nancy believes in miracles.

  Thunder suddenly drummed in the distance. Roses perfumed the air. And

  Saint Camillus de Lellis floated out of his picture frame, gaining size, hue,

  and dimension, until he stood a full, fleshy man on a roiling cloud in the

  middle of the room.

  It was a good show, but Nancy wasn’t even watching. She watched Zoranna

  instead, letting her know she knew it was all a trick.

  I told you, Zoranna tongued.

  The saint looked at Zoranna, and his face flickered. For a moment, it was

  her mother’s face. Her mother appeared young, barely twenty, the age she

  was when she bore her. Taken off-guard, Zoranna startled when her mother

  smiled adoringly at her, as she must have smiled thousands of times at her

  first baby. Zoranna shook her head and looked away. She felt ambushed and

  not too pleased about it.

  When Nancy saw this, however, she turned to examine the saint. There

  was no telling what or who she saw, but she gasped and struggled out of her

  recliner to kneel at his feet. She was bathed in a holy aura, and the room

  dimmed around her. After long moments of silent communion, the saint

  pointed to his forehead. Nancy, horror-struck, turned to stare at Zoranna,

  and the apparition ascended, shrank, and faded into the ceiling. The candles

  extinguished themselves, one by one, and vanished from the cups.

  Nancy rose and gently tugged Zoranna to the recliner, where she made her

  lie down. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “Here’s a pillow.” She carefully raised

  Zoranna’s head and slid a pillow under it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were

  sick, Zoe?” She felt Zoranna’s forehead with her palm. “And I
thought you

  went through this before.”

  Zoranna took her sister’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her hand was

  warm. Indeed, Nancy’s whole complexion was flush with color, as though the

  experience had released some reserve of vitality. “I know. I guess I haven’t

  been paying attention,” Zoranna said. “Please take me to the clinic now.”

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  GETTING TO KNOW YOU

  “Of course,” said Nancy, standing and retrieving her walker. “I’ll just pack

  a few things.” Nancy hurried to the bedroom, but the walker impeded her

  progress, so she flung it away. It went clattering into the kitchen.

  Zoranna closed her eyes and draped her arms over her head. “I must say,

  Bug . . . Nick, I’m impressed. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Why indeed,” Nicholas said in his marvelous voice. “It’s just the sort of

  sneaky manipulation you so excel at.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Zoranna opened her eyes and looked at

  a handsome, miniature man projected in the air next to her head. He wore a

  stylish leisure jacket and lounged beneath an exquisitely gnarled oak treelette.

  He was strikingly familiar, as though assembled from favorite features of men

  she’d found attractive.

  “It means you were ambivalent over whether you really wanted Nancy to

  survive,” the little man said, crossing his little legs.

  “That’s insulting,” she said, “and untrue. She’s my sister. I love her.”

  “Which is why you visit her once every decade or so.”

  “You have a lot of nerve,” she said and remembered the canceled field test.

  “So this is what Ted meant when he said you’d turn nasty.”

  “I guess,” Nicholas said, his tiny face a picture of bemused sympathy. “I

  can’t help the way I am. They programmed me to know and serve you. I just

  served you by saving your sister in the manner you, yourself, taught me. Once

  she’s rejuvenated, I’ll find a hospicer society to employ her. That ought to

  give you a grace period before she repeats this little stunt.”

  “Grace period?”

  “In a few years, all but the most successful pre-clone humans will have died

  out,” Nicholas said. “Hospices will soon be as redundant as elementary

  schools. Your sister has a knack for choosing obsolete careers.”

  That made sense.

  “I suppose we could bring Victor back,” said Nicholas. “He’s a survivor, and

  he loves her.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Zoranna. “He was only using her.”

  “Hello! Wake up,” said Nicholas. “He’s a rat, but he loves her, and you

  know it. You, however, acted out of pure jealousy. You couldn’t stand seeing

  them together while you’re all alone. You don’t even have friends, Zoe, not

  close ones, not for many years now.”

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  DAVID MARUSEK

  “That’s absurd!”

  The little man rose to his feet and brushed virtual dirt from his slacks. “No

  offense, Zoe, but don’t even try to lie to me. I know you better than your last seven husbands combined. Bug contacted them, by the way. They were

  forthcoming with details.”

  Zoranna sat up. “You did what?”

  “That Bug was a hell of a researcher,” said Nicholas. “It queried your former

  friends, employers, lovers, even your enemies.”

  Zoranna unsnapped the belt flap to expose the valet controls. “What are

  you doing?” said Nicholas. She had to remove the belt in order to read the

  labels. “You can turn me off,” said Nicholas, “but think about it— I know

  you.”

  She pushed the switch and the holo vanished. She unscrewed the storage

  grommet, peeled off the button-sized memory wafer, and held it between

  thumb and forefinger. “If you know me so well . . . ,” she seethed, squeezing

  it. She was faint with anger. She could hardly breathe. She bent the wafer

  nearly to its breaking point.

  Here she was, sitting among her sister’s sour-smelling pillows, forty stories

  underground, indignantly murdering a machine. It occurred to her that

  perhaps General Genius was on to something after all, and that she should be

  buying more shares of their stock instead of throttling their prototype. She

  placed the wafer in her palm and gently smoothed it out. It looked so

  harmless, yet her hand still trembled. When was the last time anyone had

  made her tremble? She carefully replaced the wafer in the grommet and

  screwed it into the belt.

  It’d be a miracle if it still worked.

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  USER-CENTRIC

  By Bruce Sterling

  From: Team Coordinator

  To: “Design Team” [Engineer, Graphic Designer, Legal Expert, Marketer,

  Programmer, Social Anthropologist & Team Coordinator]

  Subject: New Product Brainstorm

  Another new product launch. Well, we all know what that means. Nobody

  ever said that they’re easy. But I do believe the seven of us—given our unique

  backgrounds and our proven skills—are just the people to turn things around

  for this company.

  Things aren’t as bad as the last quarterly report makes them look. Despite

  what the shareholders may think, we’ve definitely bottomed out from that

  ultrasonic cleanser debacle. Sales in muscle-gel apps remain strong.

  Plus, the buzz on our new product category just couldn’t be hotter. People

  across our industry agree that locator tag microtechnology is a killer app in

  the intelligent-environment market. MEMS tech is finally out of the lab and

  bursting into the marketplace, and our cross-licenses and patents look very

  solid. As for the development budget—well, this is the biggest new product

  budget I’ve seen in eight years with this company.

  My point is, we’ve got to get away from our old-fashioned emphasis on

  “technology for tech’s sake.” That approach is killing us in the modern

  marketplace. Yes, of course MEMS locator chips are a “hot, sweet”

  technology—and yes, “If you build it, they will come.” Our problem is, we do

  build it, and they do come, but they *give all the money to somebody else.*

  We can’t live on our reputation as a cutting-edge engineering outfit. Design

  awards just don’t pay the bills. That’s not what our shareholders want, and

  it’s not what the new management wants. No matter how we may grumble,

  this company has got to be competitive in the real world. That means that it’s

  BRUCE STERLING

  all about Return-On-Investment. It’s about meeting consumer demand, and

  generating serious revenue.

  So let’s not start with the product qua product. Our product is not a

  “commodity” any more, and the consumer is not a “user.” The product is a

  point of entry for the buyer into a long-term, rewarding relationship.

  So what we require here, people, is a story. That story has got to be a human

  story. It has to be a user-centric story—it’s got to center on the user himself.

  It’s all about the guy who’s opening his wallet and paying up.

  I want this character, this so-called “user,” to be a real person with some real human needs. I want to know *who he is,* and *what we’re doing for him,*

  and *why he’s giving us money.* So we’ve got
to know what he needs, what he

  wants. What he longs for, what he hopes for, what he’s scared of. All about him.

  If we understand him and his motivations, then we also understand our

  product. I want to know what we can do for this guy in his real life. How can

  we mold his thinking?

  From: Design Engineer

  To: Design Team

  Subject: Re: New Product Brainstorm

  FYI, User specs: Classic early adapter type. Male. Technically proficient. 18–35

  age demographic. NAFTA/Europe. Owns lots of trackable, high-value-added,

  mobile hardware products: sporting goods, laptops, bicycles, luggage, possibly

  several cars.

  From: Marketer

  To: Design Team

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  USER-CENTRIC

  Subject: User Specs

  I just read the Engineer’s e-mail, and gee whiz, people. That is dullsville.

  That is marketing poison. Do you have any idea how burned out the Male-

  Early-Adapter thing is in today’s competitive environment? These guys

  have digital toothbrushes now. They’re nerd-burned, they’ve been

  consumer-carpet-bombed! There’s nothing left of their demographic!

  They’re hiding in blacked-out closets hoping their shoes will stop paging

  their belt buckles.

  Nerds can’t push this product into the high-volume category that we need for

  a breakeven. We need a housekeeping technology. I mean ultra-high volume,

  in the realm of soaps, mops, brooms, scrubbing brushes, latex gloves, light

  bulbs. An impulse buy, but high-margin and everywhere.

  From: Programmer

  To: Design Team

  Subject: [no subject]

  I can’t believe I agree with the Marketer. But really, I’d rather be dipped in

  crumbs and deep-fried than grind out code for some lamer chip that tells you

  where your lawnmower is. I mean, if you don’t know by now. READ THE

  FRIENDLY MANUAL. I mean, how stupid are people out there supposed to

  be? Don’t answer that. Jeez.

  From: The Social Anthropologist

  To: Design Team

  Subject: Creating Our Reality Model

  People, forgive me for this, but I don’t think you quite grasp what Fred, our

  esteemed Team Leader, is suggesting to us approach-wise. We need a solid

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  BRUCE STERLING

  story before we consider the specs on the technical MacGuffin. A story just