“Of course.”
Of course. Konstantin managed not to smile. “You think you could introduce me?”
“Of course not.” The woman was almost offended.
Now Konstantin shrugged. “It was worth a try.”
“You got to understand here that anyone who knows Body and drags along every prole that wants to see her, won’t know her for too long.”
“I guess I can understand that. Suppose I go in and find her myself?” Pleshette stared at her. “You think you can?”
“One of your employees offered me some secret insider icons. Whatever those are.”
The manager straightened up. “Yeah? Who?” she asked sharply.
“The bored one. Mezzer. Tim.”
“Oh, him.” Pleshette waved one hand. “You can find his so-called secret insider icons in the index of any online guidebook. I got stuff you can get around with.”
“But will you loan any to me?”
The funny little face looked doubtful. “What’re you gonna do with it?”
Konstantin took a breath. “All I want to do is ask this Body Sativa some questions.”
“What kind of questions?” the night manager asked suspiciously.
Now Konstantin felt as if she had fallen through a rabbit hole in time that had sent her back to the beginning of the situation, which she would have to explain all over again. “Questions having to do with the kid who died here tonight—Shantih Love, or Tomoyuki Iguchi, whichever you knew him as.”
“I didn’t know him at all,” said Pleshette. Konstantin felt like screaming. “And there’s no insurance that Body Sativa did, either. But if that’s all you really want to do, I can load some stuff for you. But you got to promise me, you won’t misuse any of it.”
“Misuse it how?” Konstantin asked.
“Poaching.”
“And what would that entail?”
“Getting stuff you’re not entitled to get.”
“‘Stuff’? In AR?” Konstantin felt completely lost now.
The night manager folded her arms again. “Yeah. Stuff in AR. In the Sitty. Everybody who goes in regular’s got stuff in AR. So I got this nothing job. I got to put up with blowfish like Miles Mank. I live in a hive on Sepulveda. But I got stuff in AR. I got a good place for myself, I’m in the game with the name and the fame. I even got myself a few passwords. I put in plenty of time to get all that. I don’t want it just slipped out from under me when I’m not there to defend it.” The funny little face started to pucker unhappily. “You got stuff out here, you don’t need to go poachin’ my stuff in there. If you see what I mean.”
Konstantin saw; it sent a wave of melancholy through her. “All I want to do is contact Body Sativa if I can. I don’t want to do anything else.”
Pleshette held her gaze for a long moment and then shrugged her bony shoulders hugely. “Yeah. Well, you know, it’s not like I can’t tell the difference between in there and out here, it’s not like I think I can put that stuff in a bank or anything. But I put a lot of time in; I spent some big sums doin’ it. If I give it away, then I got nothing. You see that?”
Konstantin saw. She couldn’t decide, however, if it was the sort of thing a person might kill for.
* * *
Guilfoyle Pleshette found a clean hotsuit in Konstantin’s size and helped her put it on, giving her a flurry of instructions in her little cartoony voice. Konstantin felt silly, even though she knew this was really just like any other information gathering operation, except it was more like using the telephone. Unless what happened to the kid happened to her, she thought unhappily.
Tim Mezzer made good on his promise to supply icons and loaded the file into the headmount for her. “All you have to do is ask for your icon cat,” he said, sounding less bored. “And if you’re not sure which icon to try, ask for advice.”
“Ask who?”
“The icons,” he said, looking at her as if she should have known this. “They all have their own help files attached. But I gotta tell you, they’re all pretty idiosyncratic, too. You know how it is, what some people call help.”
Konstantin was mildly alarmed to find that she actually understood what he was telling her. After loading her own information into the headmount, Pleshette took her to one of the deluxe cubicles—deluxe meaning it was half again as large and included an extra chair. She helped Konstantin get comfortable in it, fastened the straps just tightly enough to keep her from falling if she got overly energetic, and fitted her headmount for her. Konstantin tried to thank her, but the headmount muffled her too well. She felt more than heard the woman leave the room. Fear rippled through her, briefly but intensely, making her dizzy.
Then the screen lit up with a control panel graphic and she immediately regained her balance. She turned on the log. The log was an independent, outside operation with only an on-off access, so she’d have her own record that she could prove hadn’t been tampered with later, if necessary. Funny how the first thing anyone had to do with taped evidence was prove that it hadn’t been toasted, she thought.
The control panel graphic disappeared and the screen showed her the configuration menu. She made her choices—sighting graphic and help line on request—while the ’suit warmed up. This was a full-coverage ’suit, she realized, uncomfortable. Somehow, she hadn’t given it any thought when she was putting it on and it was too late to do anything about it now. Besides, they were probably all full-coverage ’suits; full-coverage would be the big attraction in a place like this. As if to confirm her thoughts, a hotsuit ad replaced the configuration menu.
Because if you’re not going to feel it all over, murmured a congenial female voice while a hotsuit, transparent to show all the sensors, revolved on the screen, why bother? Which, when you thought about it, wasn’t such an unreasonable question.
The headmounted monitor adjusted the fine-tuning for her focal length by showing her the standard introduction in block letters on a background of shifting colors. Konstantin sighed impatiently. So much introductory material with the meter running—she could see the clock icon tagging along at the upper edge of her peripheral vision on the right side. You probably couldn’t go broke operating a video parlor, she thought, unless you tried real, real hard.
The sign came up so suddenly that it took at least three seconds to register on her, and even then she wasn’t sure right away whether she was really seeing it, or imagining it. Seeing in AR felt strangely too close to thinking.
WELCOME TO THE LAND OF ANYTHING GOES
HERE THERE ARE NO RULES
EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED
Ha, thought Konstantin.
You can choose to be totally anonymous.
You can tell the whole truth about yourself.
You can tell only lies.
The word lies flashed on and off in different colors before it evaporated.
No real crime is possible here. If you do something Out There as a result of events In Here, you are on your own. In the event of your persona’s virtual death, you can request to be directed to central stores, where you can choose another. The time used in choosing a new persona or performing any reference or maintenance task is not free, though a reduced rate may be available through your parlor operator. Consult the rate file in your personal area for more information.
Konstantin looked around for a speed-scroll option.
There is no speed-scroll option for this portion of your session. State and federal law specifically declare that all users must be advised of conditions in the gaming area. By reading this, you agree that you understand the structure and accept any charges, standard and/or extra, that you will incur at your point of origin. Closing your eyes will only result in a full rescroll of the introductory material, at your own expense.
Blink-rate and eye-movements could reveal a great deal about a person’s thoughts, especially when used in conjunction with vital signs, Konstantin remembered, feeling even more uneasy.
This concludes the introductory mate
rial. The next screen will be your destination menu. Bon voyage, and good luck.
The screen that came up showed her four doors labeled Post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty, Post-Apocalyptic Ellay, Post-Apocalyptic Hong Kong, and Others.
A small bright icon appeared at the bottom right corner of her visual field, a graphic of a hand twisting a doorknob. Just below it, on the status line, was the word Cue! Feeling awkward, she reached for the Noo Yawk Sitty door and saw a generic whitegloved hand moving toward the knob. As the hand touched the knob, she felt it in her own hand, the sensors delivering a sensation to the palm side of her fingers that surprised her with its intense authenticity—it was more like touching a doorknob than actually touching a doorknob.
The next moment was a flash of chaos, a maelstrom of noise and light, countless touches and textures everywhere at once, over before she could react to any of it. Under her feet, she could hear the scrape of the gritty glitz, the glitzy grit of post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty; she could see the sparkle and glitter of it spread out before her—not Eliot’s etherized patient awaiting dissection but a refulgent feast for her reeling senses.
HINT: In case of disorientation, amp your ’suit down and wait at least thirty seconds before attempting movement. Closing your eyes could result in vertigo. This message will be repeated.
She thought she heard herself make some kind of relieved noise as she stared at the setting marked decrease. In a few moments, all the settings on the suit had been re-adjusted to a more bearable level. Whoever had had this ’suit on last, she thought, had either been extremely jaded or suffering from some kind of overall senses-impairment disorder. Or—not so amazing in the era of the more-real-than-real experience—both.
Now that she could perceive her surroundings without being assaulted by them, Konstantin was dismayed to find that she didn’t seem to be anywhere near where Shantih Love had died. Instead, she was standing at the edge of an open area in the midst of a crowd of tall buildings festooned with enormous neon signs of a sort that had been popular seventy or eighty years before. Except for herself, there were no people, or at least none that she could see, and no sound except for a faint hum that might have come from the signs, or from some distant machine. Or possibly even from some loose connection in the headmount, she thought sourly. It would be just her luck.
The buildings were dark, showing the scars of fires, bullets, and bomb blasts, broken-out windows gaping like empty eye sockets, but the signs were brilliant, impossibly vivid with shifting colors that melted and morphed like living ropes of molten light. She had to look away or be hypnotized.
Her gaze locked onto a silvery figure standing in an open doorway. At first, she thought it was someone wearing a skintight bio-suit but then the figure moved forward and she saw that its skin was the same color as the clothes it wore. The figure moved closer and she amended her perception: it was the same material as the clothes it wore.
“New in town?” it sang, approaching carefully.
“Maybe,” she said, taking a step back.
“Oh, you’re new.” The figure, which began to look more like it was made of mercury or chrome, gestured at something behind her. Konstantin turned to look.
The sight of the completely hairless and sexless creature in the dark glass made her jump; then embarrassment made her cringe. She had completely forgotten to choose a persona and the hotsuit, rather than choosing one for her, had let her enter AR wearing a placeholder. Her gaze darted around as she searched for the exit icon.
“It’s not necessary to leave,” the silvery figure said in its musical voice. Now that it was right next to her, Konstantin could see it was a sort of animated metal sculpture of a tall young girl, though she couldn’t quite identify the metal. Chrome, mercury, or possibly platinum? “Pull down Central Stores and choose Wardrobe. Then just follow the directions.”
“Oh. Thank you so much.” Feeling awkward, Konstantin stuck out her hand. “I’m, uh, Dore. And you’re right, I’m new here.”
The silver girl seemed unaware of her extended hand. “I am a pop-up help-and-guide subroutine keyed to respond to situations and types of situations most often identified with new users of AR and/or post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty. I am also available on request. Pull down Help and ask for Sylvia.”
Konstantin started to thank her again but the girl made a fast gesture at eye-level and she found herself standing at a shiny white counter. The words TOUCH HERE FOR ASSISTANCE faded in on its surface, going from pale pink to blood red and back to pale pink before disappearing. Konstantin gingerly put a fingertip on the spot where she estimated the middle of the O in FOR had been.
“Help you,” said a hard-edged male voice; the short, plump man who appeared on the other side of the counter looked as if he were answering a casting call for a play about bank tellers in 1900. The green visor on his forehead cast a shadow that made it hard to see anything of his eyes but reflected pinpoints of light.
“Where’s the rest of your hat?” Konstantin asked impulsively.
“This is an eyeshade, not a hat,” he replied in that same sharp, almost harsh tone. “Its presence connotes items and equipment available to you in AR, some at a surcharge. Do you want to see a list of items and equipment with their corresponding surcharges? These can also be itemized on the hardcopy printout of your receipt.”
“I don’t know. Is a persona classified as an item or as equipment?”
“Neither. A persona is a persona. Did you have someone in particular in mind or were you planning construction here? Morphing services within AR are available for a surcharge; however, there is no extra charge if you have brought your own morphing utility with you. Except, of course, for any extra time that might be consumed by the morphing process.”
Konstantin suddenly found herself yawning; so far, her big AR adventure was turning out to be even more tiresome than the reality she was used to. “Does anybody really do anything in here besides listen to how much everything is costing them?”
“First-time users are advised to take the orientation sequence, and usually in some easier location.” He sounded as bored as she felt.
“I want out of here,” she said. “Out of the whole thing, I mean. Exit. End it. Good-bye. Stop. Logging off. Out, out, out.”
Abruptly, she was staring at a blank screen; her ’suit was in Suspend, she saw, but still turned on. Words began to crawl up the screen in a steady scroll.
Your time in your chosen AR location has been halted. Readings indicate a high level of tension and stress in a low level of situation. Generally this occurs when the user is confused or has not taken proper instruction in the use of AR. Do you wish to continue in AR, or do you wish to terminate the program and exit? Please choose one option and one option only.
She was about to tell it to terminate when she heard what sounded like a telephone ringing.
The words on the screen vanished and a new message appeared quickly, word by word. Realtime communication with you is being requested. Do you want to talk to the caller? Please answer yes or no.
“Who is it?” she asked and then added quickly, “Oh, never mind. Put them on.”
There was a click and she heard the familiar cartoony tones of Guilfoyle Pleshette. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Yeah, what I thought. Icons and passwords don’t do you a bit of good if you don’t know what you’re doing. That’s an advanced ’suit I put you in. It doesn’t carry a pre-fab for you, you got to bring your own.”
“My own what?” asked Konstantin worriedly.
“Your own persona. I thought you had one you wanted.”
“I do.”
“Well, who is it?”
Konstantin took a breath. “Shantih Love.”
Pleshette didn’t even hesitate. “You want it with or without the cut throat?”
“With,” Konstantin said. “Definitely with. And I want a copy of the surveillance footage loaded into a subroutine, too.”<
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“You gonna run a sequence within a sequence?”
“I might. If it looks like it might get me some answers. Why?”
“Because that’s a pretty expensive thing to do.” Pleshette sounded both annoyed and worried. “Who’s gonna pay for all of this online time and fun and games?”
“You are,” Konstantin said.
“What?”
“I said, the taxpayers are. Your tax dollars at work.”
Pleshette’s laugh was low but surprisingly harsh. “Not my tax dollars. I don’t pay taxes, not on my salary. You want to impress some taxpayers, catch some criminals in there and drag them out with you when you sign off.”
* * *
Twenty (billable) minutes later, Konstantin stepped through a doorway onto the street where she had first seen Shantih Love. The feel of the Love persona in her ’suit was pleasurable in a way that kept her on edge. Being Shantih Love was close to seductive, even with the sliced throat, something she had not taken into consideration.
Real easy to go native in a Gang Wars module. Guilfoyle Pleshette’s words came to mind unbidden. Not to mention unhelpfully, she thought; this wasn’t a Gang Wars module. That she knew of, anyway.
She was wondering now if she really knew anything at all. The piles of wreckage in the street were all aflame, burning in jeweltones, now and then sending sparks skyward, where they seemed to mingle with the stars. The glitter she had seen on the monitor looked somehow less gritty from the inside and more like delicate sprays of tiny lights, too exquisitely fragile not to shatter in a light puff of a breeze, yet remaining, twinkling and shimmering against the black street, the pitted brick and the web-cracked glass of the buildings facing the burning wrecks, the coldstone texture of the barrier between the street and the alien shore of the Hudson River.
Konstantin went to the barrier and strolled along it in the direction Shantih Love had taken, looking around for anything like the figure of a shaggy beast that might take an interest in her.
Rather than anything approaching, however, Konstantin had a sense of things drawing away from her, many watching with the knowledge that she was an impostor. And then again, she thought suddenly, how would anyone know, if the Shantih Love persona had gone on for another four hours after Iguchi’s death? Maybe the only one who knew was the creature who had attacked and hijacked Shantih Love here in the first place.
The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995 Page 33
