by Ted Weber
She laughed. “Your cooking sucks. It’s just mine is worse, and Kiyoko is completely useless at anything practical.”
Pel looked hurt.
“Sorry, I was just being snarky.” She gripped his pec muscles and tweaked his nipples. “You can cook. But I meant, you’re right, we took a big risk today. And there’s bigger to come.”
He slapped her ass, a part of her body that obsessed him. “We all agreed to it. Don’t feel guilty.”
Waylee slid her hands down the smooth skin of his torso. “You do so much for me. What do I do for you?”
He pointed in the direction her hands were headed.
She chuckled. “Besides that, I mean. You can get that from anyone. That Greektown sweetie your parents want you with, for example.”
“Audrey? That’s ancient.” He entwined his fingers with hers. “You’re the only girl for me now. You’re like a blazing sun. You can change the world. And we have each others’ backs.”
Waylee kissed him, then focused on prepping him for another round.
“Aren’t you worried?” he said after a couple of minutes.
She was busy, so she just shrugged. Her brain told her not to worry about anything, but her brain couldn’t always be trusted. Another reason to have Pel around.
Waylee sat up when her lover looked ready.
“I hope Charles…” he started to say.
I can’t believe he’s thinking about Charles. She straddled him, shivering at the sensation. “Shut up and do me again. We’ve barely started.”
On a plateau, he said. She hoped this ride would last, but deep inside, knew better. Even if she couldn’t see the precipice, it was out there, waiting.
6
Charles
Charles finished poking around the Smithsonian site, then downloaded some programs from Collective servers that Pel didn’t seem to have. Ninety percent of hacking was having a good toolkit.
His stomach growled. He didn’t remember seeing snacks in the game room, though. And he wanted to check out BetterWorld. At least for a while.
Pel’s virtual reality helmet already had the Collective’s software for viewing BetterWorld. Like their Comnet browser, it masked the user’s identity and location. And it wasn’t full of spyware like the “required” MediaCorp version.
Once Charles confirmed he couldn’t be tracked, he opened a portal to BetterWorld. Joe34567 didn’t have a virtual home yet, so he started in an anonymous white room full of ads for destinations, avatar mods, and opportunities to trade outside currency for BetterWorld credits. He ignored the offer to install the latest viewing software, and started building an avatar, Big J.
He scrolled through the options, and made Big J an up-and-coming rap artist and private eye, built like a linebacker, and dressed as stylish as the initial wardrobe allowed. I need some credits to step this chump up.
He brought up the software’s teleport interface. Unfortunately, you couldn’t teleport just anywhere in BetterWorld, only to fixed destinations, like property you owned, public sites, or places you got permission to visit. Some of the advertised destinations looked pretty cool—adventures, combat games, all kinds of clubs… He ignored them for now and brought up a search box. “Princess Kiyoko,” he said. Might as well find out more about her.
An avatar portait appeared. It looked just like the real Kiyoko, pink hair and all. ‘Course, her looks were hard to improve on.
He selected the “my site” link beneath her picture. A doorway appeared and he stepped through, finding himself in an upscale shopping mall, with several levels arranged in nested rings. Other avatars walked around, most wearing costumes like cartoon characters.
The entry level sold clothes and accessories, all designed by her. The level above focused on her band, Dwarf Eats Hippo. Video clips played on the back wall. Kiyoko, who played bass, looked out of place in such a hard-edged band, but seemed to enjoy being on stage. Pel stood in the back with his mix decks and shit. Waylee, though, pounded her guitar and jumped around like a human tornado. Girl could be a star, why’s she risking that?
He took an escalator to the third level, devoted to her kingdom, called Yumekuni and located over on the Fantasy Continent. He pulled up a search window. ‘Yumekuni’ was Japanese for ‘dream country.’ A sign explained that you could visit with permission, “as long as you weren’t affiliated with Prince Vostok.”
And above this, he hit the jackpot—fan hangouts and a gallery of modeling photos. He flipped through the photos. Unfortunately, no nudes, not even bikini shots.
He started feeling like a stalker and returned to the teleport. “Swagspeare’s,” he told the search engine. It was no doubt the tip-toppest virtual club on the continent of Urbania. Dr. Doom’s homies hung out there—not many hacktivists, mostly profiteers and torchers. Besides checking out who was still in the game, maybe he could scratch up some help.
A portal opened and he walked onto the sidewalk in front of the club. Like everything in BetterWorld, Urbania looked as real as Baltimore. ‘Cept no rats or puddles of piss. You could see why BetterWorld took more server space than the rest of the Comnet combined. Only thing missing was the smells, but they were working on that too. No doubt they’d be good smells, like frying fish and sweet potato pie. They’d just rolled out taste technology, but you had to be hardcore and stick electrodes on your tongue.
Even outside the door, dance music thumped. He recited the password to the bouncer, a simulated gorilla just like the ones they had in zoos, but wearing shades and gold bling. The gorilla made a series of hand gestures. Big J responded in kind, then walked into the small lobby.
What…? Along with flyers of upcoming events, there was a note on the lobby wall for him, “Dr. Doom” in big letters. He edged closer to read the smaller print. “Need to talk…”
He froze as soon as he realized what he had done. Stupid! He stopped reading, then stared at the flyer next to it. It listed the week’s guest DJs. He spent a good minute or two examining all the flyers, then moved on toward the bar and dance floor.
The music got louder, lots of bass and percussion. Same old crowd inside for the most part. They didn’t recognize his new avatar of course. But the barmaid, a half-naked party girl, stared at him, and it wasn’t the friendly type of stare that meant “What you having” or “What’re you doing later?”
Better get out of here. He turned around.
The gorilla stood right there facing him, canines bared and massive fists clenched.
Big J tried to shove past the gorilla, but it grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the floor. The club district wasn’t a combat zone but obviously it didn’t know or care.
He threw a jab at the gorilla’s face. It didn’t even flinch when his fist connected.
He landed more. No effect.
The ape grasped his neck with both paws and began to squeeze.
Teleport time. He didn’t have any locations saved, but he could go back to the starting point. Normally you couldn’t teleport out of combat, but this didn’t seem like a regular game.
The teleport command didn’t work. Neither did anything else.
Warning signs popped up. His avatar was being taken over.
Time for the nuclear option. Peace, Big J.
Charles switched off the immersion unit. Complete darkness.
He waited a minute, then turned it back on. He’d create a new account, purge Joe34567, and erase all traces of his last visit. He’d have to be careful from now on, avoid his old haunts.
Peace, old gang.
* * *
Pelopidas
When finally Waylee lay back sated, Pel noticed the sun dying on the other side of the window. You wouldn’t know it was almost winter from the temperatures, but the days had definitely grown short.
His stomach growled. Normally he and his housemates ate dinner together, but they’d forgotten all about eating today. He turned to his lover. “Food?”
“Yeah. And beer.”
They threw on enough
clothes to avoid embarrassing Kiyoko if they ran into her. Waylee re-inserted the silver nose and eyebrow rings she’d taken out that morning. She had the face of a supermodel—high cheekbones, full lips, unblemished skin…
She returned his gaze and raised her pierced eyebrows. “What?”
“Chicken butt.”
Waylee leapt on his back, and he carried her out the door. She remembered to duck this time.
Pel peeked in the game room on their way to the stairs. Charles sat in the swivel chair, immersion helmet bobbing back and forth, gloved hands waving like a conductor’s.
“Hard at work,” Waylee said, and hopped off.
“Let’s not bother him.” Hard to believe he’s one of the top Collectivistas and barely seventeen. All I could do at his age was play video games. He squeezed Waylee’s hand and led her downstairs. The morning’s near-death felt like a childhood memory, or something he saw in a movie.
They couldn’t find much to eat in the kitchen, and only four cans of Natty Boh. They downed all four, accompanied by bowls of lentils doused in Skankin’ Fred’s Volcano Sauce.
“Should have gone shopping yesterday,” Pel said when they finished.
Waylee raised an eyebrow. “With what money?”
“Shakti’s got cash. She and Dingo can go. Can’t have our guest starve.” He crushed the empty cans, then tossed them toward the recycle bin. Three out of four made it in. “Six cents richer.”
Waylee picked up the errant can and dropped it in the bin. “I’m gonna hit the guitar. I may actually write a love song, as sappy as I feel now.”
He kissed her, tasting hot sauce and beer. Not much she could do now. The Comnet work was mostly on Charles. “I’ll be down later. Thought I’d start getting gear together.” It would be expensive, but maybe Charles and Kiyoko could help trade for it, like Kiyoko did for the masks.
Waylee took the stairs down to the basement and he headed back upstairs to the game room.
They needed good A/V equipment, and hoped to rip data off the guests’ comlinks. They’d have to be careful with Secret Service present, though. They couldn’t broadcast signals of any kind.
No masks this time. As good as Kiyoko’s friends were, that was way too risky. They’d have to go as themselves, only bland looking. They’d need appropriate clothes. And they’d need security clearances and fake ID’s.
How about designer drugs? Something to relax inhibitions without being obvious, make their targets confess every sin. It would have to blend in with an alcohol buzz. I’ll put Dingo on that.
Back in the game room, Charles typed on an invisible keyboard. Pel threw on one of the other game systems—3-D goggles, headset, and gloves—and plopped into the second swivel chair. He immersed himself in the Comnet and donned his Collective avatar—William Godwin, the eighteenth century utilitarianist, anarchist, and novelist.
The Collective moved the Emporium, their virtual trading center, at random intervals to random servers scattered around the world in attics and basements. You could only access it using the Collective Router and its decryption algorithms, and you had to know the current address. As an insider, Pel received the new link whenever it changed. He checked the credentials and reviews of the electronics sellers, then sent a contact message to his first choice.
A portal opened after about five minutes, revealing a dark-paneled study. The Emporium ran on Qualia, the same 3-D platform as BetterWorld. A distinguished silver-haired gentleman sat in an overstuffed burgundy armchair, smoking a cigar. He looked photorealistic, as good as Pel’s avatar.
“How may I be of assistance?” the gentleman asked in House of Lords English.
“I need some electronics. First, video recorders with top of the line pickup, but undetectable. I was thinking mini pinhole cameras I can embed into clothes. They need to store the data, not transmit, and have to be emission shielded.”
He snuffed out his cigar. “Easy enough, Mr. Godwin. How many?”
“Three. No, make that four.”
He nodded.
“I also need some ghost snares.”
“What kind?”
“One to record comlink transmissions, and one to intercept and analyze radiation leaking from comlinks. Inconspicuous like the cameras. Let’s say three of each. And decryption software. Doesn’t have to be real time.” It would be nice if they could install spyware, but they’d need the comlinks long enough to crack the passwords.
The gentleman leaned back and folded his hands. “That’s not as easy.” He paused. “But I can do it.”
“Your reputation is deserved.”
“Now, shall we discuss price?”
“I have a database of unused Comnet ID’s I can trade—”
He waved a finely creased hand. “You’re wasting my time.”
Started too low. “How about BetterWorld credits?” Kiyoko sold virtual clothing and stuff there, and her kingdom had paying tenants.
“You don’t have real money?”
“BetterWorld credits are real money. It won’t be long before Better-World’s bigger than the physical economy.”
He shrugged.
“I’ll throw in some wireless keys.”
Which I don’t have, but we can put Charles on it…
“Whose, exactly?”
“Enterprises worth accessing. I’ll get back to you with specifics.”
The gentleman nodded. “Come back in a week. I’ll have your cameras by then, and possibly the rest. I’ll need a down payment of two million credits.”
About $5000. Damn. Hope Kiyoko has that much. “I’ll get it for you. I need everything by three weeks, tops.”
* * *
Charles
The cleanup process took about an hour. Last step, Charles deleted the sniffers outside the New Year’s Gala site and deployed new ones.
He routed the sniffer output to a traffic program. The data packets were all encoded, so he couldn’t read them directly. But he could see where they went. The traffic program would copy all data packets entering and leaving the New Year’s site, follow outgoing packets to their destination, and backtrack incoming packets to their origin. He’d check back in a couple of days and map all the interconnections in a visual program. Maybe they could find the caterers and guests that way.
As for BetterWorld, who’d been operating the barmaid and the gorilla? BPD didn’t have the imagination for it. No reward had been posted, so unlikely a freelancer.
They put a lock on his avatar to stop him from teleporting. That meant a programmer or someone else with special privileges. Maybe the law told MediaCorp about his escape, and they sent cybermercs after him on BetterWorld. Well, that was the last they’d see of Big J or Dr. Doom.
He’d wait a bit before creating a new avatar. Then he’d see if he could get programmer privileges for himself. And flip the situation on his invisible foes.
7
Waylee
Waylee finished speed reading her Naomi Klein e-book and joined Pel in the kitchen. He lit their ancient gas stove and poured globs of banana pancake batter in a 12-inch skillet.
Shakti and Dingo had stocked the shelves last night, spending a big chunk of their meager paychecks. The smell of frying bananas brought everyone but Kiyoko running. Strange, usually she’s the first one in line.
Laelaps padded into the kitchen and squatted next to the stove, summoning the Force to deliver an errant pancake into his mouth.
“My pops wants to come over next weekend,” Pel said.
I thought I could rely on you. “You know that’s impossible with Charles here.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know.” He nudged a pancake with his spatula, peering underneath.
“Tell him we’ve got gigs,” she said. “What’s he want? Make sure we haven’t trashed his property?”
Pel whirled and pointed the spatula like a gun. “Don’t be a bitch. Not everyone’s parents are like yours.”
“Unfair.” Not that she felt any loyalty to the fuckwits who bir
thed her. Her statuesque Celtic-Latina mother had shown little interest in childcare. She’d worked mostly at bars, possibly for the free drinks.
Waylee couldn’t remember what her father looked like. He would pace their basement apartment in his underwear, shouting about who knows what and waving his hands like he was besieged by clouds of invisible flies. Then he’d cry in bed for days while her mother trudged off to work or wherever. When Waylee was six, he jumped off the Walt Whitman bridge, 153 feet into the Delaware River.
And then her mother fell in with Feng.
“When’s the next news update?” Pel asked, eyes focused on the griddle.
“If you mean real news, when I get my video on the air.” She’d woken up before dawn and checked the local feed, but saw nothing new about the breakout. Just a fluff piece about the mayor’s latest campaign to promote the city. Mayors and Chambers of Commerce had concocted one inane slogan after another to attract businesses and tourists: ‘Charm City,’ ‘The City That Reads,’ even ‘The Greatest City in America.’ Her musician friends called it ‘The Gritty City.’ Waylee had once emailed the city council suggesting ‘The City That Has a Few Redeeming Features If You Know Where To Look.’
Pel grunted.
“How much did you say we need for a down payment?” she asked.
“For the electronics and decryption ’ware?” He slapped the pancakes onto a big plate.
“Yeah.”
“Two million BetterWorld credits. About $5,000 on the exchange.”
“I’ll go get it.” Kiyoko could manage it, considering how many people shopped at her online store.
In the adjacent dining room, Shakti and Dingo set out mismatched silverware and cups on the table. They’d been sharing sheets for five months now, and made an odd couple, a pacifist political organizer from rural Guyana and a fight-loving agitator from the streets of Baltimore. If Pel and I can do it, though, anyone can.
Shakti frowned. “It’s so gloomy in here.”
Waylee shrugged. “Go outside.” She’d drawn the house’s faded red curtains to keep their guest out of sight.