I blinked until the only traces of white were oily blotches on my vision. “You mean that thing now has some kind of passkey to my brain? It’s encrypted?”
“Exactly, ma chérie. Your brain is now completely safe from any other omnipod signal, and that is one hundred percent guaranteed.” He rolled up his sleeves over his elbows and fetched me a chilled drinks revolver from the fridge in his minibar.
I rotated the selections until I found a liqueur I liked—Arinto—and then hit the central dome to release a couple of ice cubes. The drink-horn holder, some kind of latex over the metal, felt soft, comforting in my hand. I swilled the liquid around a little and then downed it in one shot. Sweet. I pressed the horn back under the tap for a refill.
Reggie excused himself, sneaking a quick sip of something through a straw as he ducked out the door. He returned moments later without the revolver, instead toted what looked like a tri-core memory stick about the size of a thumb. “These are brand new.” The boastful glint in his eye concurred. “An instant start-up template, so we can bypass most of the manual neural calibrating. It accesses your likes and wants directly from your memories, and adapts the omnipod in kind. For you, Allegra, it will create an audiovisual framework while the pod is in use—a kind of automatic learning tool that updates on the fly.”
He opened a side port on my pod and clipped the gizmo in. “On the market, it would cost thousands of clips. At Scheherazade’s, for a special client, all it costs is a quick nod. Do you accept my deepest apology?”
I paid him in full. The poor guy had bent over backward to set me at ease, and in any case the pirates had stuffed that doom signal in my noodle, not Reggie. I wasn’t sold on the whole omnipod fad just yet—quite the contrary—but he was being sweet and I was still a little in shock from the sour-milk fiasco.
“You sure, Reggie? There’s no hard feelings one way or the other,” I lied. “Just so you know, you don’t have to buy my loyalty or anything.”
He nodded earnestly, then, turning to one side, flashed a smirk. “Oh, it’s nothing. And tax write-offs are always good for business.” His wink set me delightfully at ease.
“In that case…what other freebies have you got?”
“More than you can imagine, my lovely Allegra.” The company motto. “On your next visit you’ll be able to access any virtual vacation with your pod. The scenarios are adapted infinitesimally by your own imagination. Based on pre-selected virtual frameworks, your pod suggests fully interactive sensorial experiences which your brain then fills in. It’s hard to describe—indeed, it’s impossible to describe, because you’ll be the one omniying each and every experience. Many of my clients come back several times a week. They find the omnipod’s potential limitless and exhilarating. No two scenarios are exactly the same, and you can flesh out your deepest dreams, cravings, desires in absolute privacy. Or if you’d prefer to share them, you can invite your friends to experience what it’s like to be you for a session.”
“That sounds…creepy. In my case, a problem shared is a problem doubled. ‘Hi, guys—welcome to my group suicide. Keep arms and legs inside the pyre at all times. Hot s’mores on me.’”
He blurted a laugh, overdid it as he did everything else. “Actually, the shared scenarios are filtered, unless users opt for the highest heat ratings for sexual trysts. But clients don’t usually come here for that. They can easily simulate it at home with a standard power adapter. Here at Scheherazade’s, we cater for the more elaborate fantasies—immersive historical worlds, far-flung planets. The more original, the better. One of my clients, a performance artist, improvises his moods and scenarios as he goes, drifting in and out of dozens of elaborate matrices to reflect the music track playing in his omnipod. He then sells those pod recordings over the communal podnet, and I get a percentage of his revenue.
“Another client, an elderly woman in her nineties, assumes the form of a beautiful twenty-five-year-old and narrates her interactive journeys. She visits famous historical events, and her first-person pod experiences, together with her lifetime of knowledge, have become popular teaching aids in schools throughout the colonies. As well as seeing what she sees and hearing her narration, you also get to taste, touch and smell history as her brain interprets it. The omnipod simulates all of that sensory information directly into users’ brains by nano-link. It’s a shared experience…in every way.”
“Okay, you’re blowing my mind here, pal.”
Reggie grinned as he motioned for me to lean away from the rig. “The tech is evolving all the time. Experts say that, before long, human consciousness might start to evolve with it, that the omnipod might be the catalyst for our brains to reveal their true potential.”
“And that collective popping sound will be our hot noodle soup.”
While he disconnected my new headset from its power terminal and packed it in a custom-designed padded case with the Scheherazade’s logo on the front, he kept muttering that phrase to himself, enjoying the hell out of it. “Hot noodle soup. Hot noodle soup. Allegra, I love your humor. Will you do me a huge favor and sign my photograph of you?” He reached under the central console and retrieved a framed black-and-white picture—one of my first and most famous interplanetary advert poses for Semprica.
The fresh silicone frame was still warm when he handed it to me. It had to have been cut there and then by an insta-pic machine under his console. “Sure thing.”
He beamed and danced a weird little jig, reminding me of one of those tacky theater emcees with a permanent grin you just want to slap around for a bit. “The Face of Semprica in my studio. Amazing.”
“I’m flattered. How about something to write with?”
He gave me a nail pen he’d pretended to pull out of his sleeve. “If you could write Enjoy your hot noodle soup, it would make my day.”
I affixed the pen like a thimble to my forefinger and signed the photo.
“Thank you, ma chérie.”
“You’re welcome. See you soon then. Thanks for the freebie.”
The guy had been borderline all along, but now he really began to overdo his camp fawning routine, smooching my hand, slotting his arm across my shoulders, whispering in my ear that I was his favorite model at Semprica and it was a crime what had happened to me and that I’d get the VIP treatment any time I visited Scheherazade’s.
“So the next time I put this thing on, I’ll be good to go? There’s a tutorial, right?”
“A personal tutorial, as brief or as in-depth as you like. Trust me, my love, your world of the omnipod will unfold quicker and sweeter than your favorite dream. And as long as you wear it, nothing need ever be dull again.”
I spotted Lenore and the others giggling, sans pods, with a group of little people at the far end of the store. She scurried over to me in her high heels when I waved, and Rinko and Phyllis sauntered after her. It occurred to me, as Reggie and I explained what had happened during the uplink, that a shift of reality had just taken place, almost imperceptibly, between the five of us. I was no longer on the outside looking in, nor was I on the inside looking out. There was no out. Only denial. I realized every facet of D.C. society was a facsimile of reality, uploaded and downloaded at a trillion terabytes per second. Friends holo-phoned or spent all day hanging out together over their pods—no distance or conflicting schedule came between them. Anyone could buy anything from anywhere and not have to expend any more effort than a blink into a headset to obtain it—more free time to do other thin
gs.
Yet, it was amazing how time-consuming free time could be.
“Bye, Reggie. Get a new suit,” Lenore shot playfully over her shoulder as we left.
“You’ll have to program one for me,” he replied, then tap-danced away to his next client-to-be-pitied.
Outside, a gaggle of over two dozen schoolgirls skipped by, all wearing designer omnipods and blue fishnet tights with short skirts. The multi-tasking on display was dazzling—they were each engaged in several conversations at once, nodding one way, then giggling another, then ducking to one side for a private, perhaps long-distance aside, all inside their headsets.
They reminded me of the juvenile prodigies I’d read about from centuries past, when the global internet had exploded into public consciousness for the first time. Entire generations of children had practically grown up online, cultivated innumerable friendships from an early age. Some of them had become so adept at holding umpteen online conversations at once while also playing games and surfing the web, their brains had developed multi-tasking faculties beyond anything neural scientists had imagined.
What Reggie had suggested—that future omnipod generations might witness giant leaps forward in brain functionality—made perfect sense to me. This was the new frontier. The line between cyber and physical reality was blurring.
And I hadn’t even been inducted yet.
“Allie, the best thing for you right now is to go straight home and get acquainted with your pod. Practice.” Phyllis held her wrist over mine and fed a length of digi-coil from her e-band until it formed a shiny bracelet around my arm. “There, I’ve printed off three usernames and friend invitation codes—mine, Rinko’s and Lenore’s. Soon as you’re live on the podnet, scan the digi-coil into your pod. The second we officially accept you, you’ll start receiving friend requests by the thousands. And trust me, hon, with a profile like yours, you’ll be the toast of the world before the day is out. If you want it.”
She smooched closer and kissed my cheek. I didn’t know what to say—Phyllis and I hadn’t exactly finished each other’s sentences in a while. And to top it off, Rinko gave me a hearty squish as well. “This is our present to you, babe,” she said. “Nothing opens doors like an omnipod.”
Another one who speaks in advert slogans.
I gazed at them in turn, blankly, then held up my new present. “Gee, thanks. I…I pod you too, mother-podders.”
I’d never seen them laugh as hard. Lenore doubled up, almost peed herself, and for a second I thought I might have to give her mouth-to-mouth. Mmm, yes please.
She slung her arm over my shoulder and flop-walked for half a block, still laughing her ass off. To say our walk back to the wheel hub was the best time I’d had in months was an understatement; the four of us rocked the arcade, mocking everything and everyone the way we had in the good ol’ days, and made the other shoppers seem like omni zombies tuned in to RIP FM.
When I got home, a mug of McCormick’s was waiting for me on the coffee table, and the room announced it was glad to see me home. The moment I set my omnipod down on the settee, two notions hit me simultaneously. The first, that I was on the threshold of immense opportunity. I’d resolved to link up with Lenore and the others on the podnet not just because it was the “in” thing to do, but because it would give my career networking a jolt up the cyber caboose. They were all ultra-popular omniyers, and with their endorsements, e-bees would swarm to my e-pollen in record time.
That had occurred to me before, but somehow I’d never quite grasped the mind-bending potential. I’d been railing against the very thing that might save my career because, well, I suck at following the herd. My home world is one of the most sparsely populated planets inside 100z. That gave you time and space to find your own path, measure your own stride upon it. But on Earth, when you’re crushed in and conveyed like syntho-meat to your shelf in the sky market, your choices seem kinda prepackaged.
Like I’d said, how can you truly glide in a place like that?
Maybe I’d found a way.
The second notion yanking at my heart in the tug-of-war concerned my three best friends. After such a raucous outing, I couldn’t wait to uplink and join in their podnet antics. But that was also what worried me. From now on, I’d get to know them all over again as podpals in virtual space. And the closer we became as omniyers, the less private, real time we’d share. I needed to spend more time with Lenore, not less. And they’d said I’d be bombarded by thousands of friend requests. Well, I’d already seen the gaggle of multitasking schoolgirls switching focus as though they were shooting ducks in their own heads.
The more friendly it sounded, the more hectic it sounded—the more I thought of the commuter wheel’s spokes. At ground level near the hub, the spinning spokes created a rapid flicker of sunlight and shade that could unspool a certain kind of mind. Sure, it was a popular place to meet people, but what good was that when your brain turned into hot noodle soup.
“You’re worrying too much,” I said aloud. “Just use it sensibly. Don’t let it take you over.”
“I’m sorry, Allegra. That command did not compute.”
“Shut it, Room. I’ve just about had a bellyful of you today.”
“Is that a new recipe? Would you like me to make less next time? You require a new skillet. Shall I order one for you?”
I hurled a settee cushion at the nearest wall speaker. “The answer to every goddamn question for the rest of the day is no. No, no, and fucking no.”
Beeep.
“Hey, what was that? Sounded like a holo-message. Room?”
“Your message has not been saved, Allegra.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because your answer to my next question—Shall I save your incoming message from Rudy Moncada?—was no.”
“Oh my God. You—” Livid, I thumped the speaker guard, knocking it off the wall and wrenching a couple of wires out of their sockets. Rudy was notoriously difficult to catch after mid-afternoon, and now I might have to spend all evening trying to reach him.
The other speakers around the apartment gave off a crackling fizz, as though they were chuckling at the damage I’d inflicted on their cousin. I sank onto the settee, minus cushion, and stared at the omnipod package beside me while I sipped my McCormick’s and cursed a world of ones and zeroes.
Nope, me and technology—we still had some ground to make up.
Chapter Three
Cyber Baptism and Other Blasphemies
It was a singularly frightening thing to be famous without a filter. Throughout my modeling career, I’d had Rudy and his marketing team to funnel public and corporate attention. The fashion shows, the holo-shoots, the charity events I’d graced in my skimpiest Gs and Ds—these, I came to learn over one excruciating day on the podnet, had been ingeniously cherry-picked for me by Rudy. Of the hundreds of requests for glamour girl Allegra Mondebay in a given week, he’d only brought a few to my attention. That safe little bubble had kept me blissfully afloat all the while I’d had a contract with Semprica.
It burst the following morning, during my second pod session.
Lenore had advised me to use either an avatar profile to disguise my true identity, or limit public access to my user details. But being an omni virgin, I was so dazzled by the audiovisual options of my pod—which I’ll get to shortly—I forgot to heed either piece of advice. The second I uploaded my holo-profile to the public sphere, facial recognition software bullseyed me and sent some kind of celebrity-alert shockwave to the four cor
ners of cyberspace.
Watching those friend requests and personal greeting numbers pile up in the top right corner of my podscreen, I glowed, then shuddered, and finally cut the uplink so I could have a chance to peruse the thousands already in my inbox. Who were they from? Fans? Prospective agents? Friends of friends—the instant networking effect Phyllis had told me about?
The very first personal greeting I opened with a double blink of my right eye began promisingly enough. The Italian man’s voice said, “Allegra, it is great to meet you. I have followed your career with much interest, and you are one of my favorites.”
I sank onto my settee, kicked my slippers off, and couldn’t wait to hear more. This was what I’d been missing all those years—fraternizing with fans. A collage of video squares spread across the screen and began to play in quick succession. They all featured me, at various venues throughout my career, and I gasped excitedly. But it struck me how quickly this fan—PauloNessa2194—had managed to locate and upload the files. Less than ten seconds, according to the log data.
My reputation began to curdle in full view of the world as I scrutinized the video clips. One by one, they exposed me in every conceivable way—backstage at fashion shows as I’d changed outfits, my intimate make-out sessions with other model friends, me showering, me shaving, me being felt-up by Tandy Semprica, each minute fashion faux-pas on catwalks and holo-shoots and even out in public. By the time I’d finished, tears banked acidically and threatened to burst. I vowed not to let them, but the depth of violation, of betrayal, of shock paralyzed me as the Italian voice said, “This is a taster of what I could broadcast to the podnet and destroy your career forever. Unless you transfer fifty thousand credits into my user account within the next hour, all this and much more will be shared with the public. If you report this message or username to the authorities, I will immediately release all videos to the podnet.”
Cyber Sparks Page 3
