Heaven is a Place on Earth

by Graham Storrs

  -oOo-

  “Oh my God!” Della seemed more thrilled than shocked as Ginny recounted her day. “He actually said that? Oh my God!”

  They were in a bar in New York. Not a real bar in New York, of course. Both Ginny and Della remained in their tanks in their own homes, Ginny in Brisbane and Della in Sydney. But they were unlatched and thus free to visit any bar in the whole of space and time, real or fictional, as long as they could afford the entry fee. Travel was free and instantaneous. So the virtual world was their oyster. It was estimated that there were over three billion worldlets on QNet – of varying scope and quality. There were over two thousand virtual New Yorks alone, covering every conceivable time period and every worldlet designer's personal interpretation of the great metropolis. The “real” New York, built and managed on behalf of the City of New York, was just one among the two thousand.

  The Empire Bar was one designer's fantasy of a 1950s cocktail bar set atop the Empire State Building, featuring spectacular views across night-time Manhattan and waitresses with seamed stockings and bright red lipstick. A pianist tinkled out jazz standards and the lighting was suited to quiet liaisons between fat middle-aged men in three-piece suits and their young, blonde companions in tight, satin dresses. Ginny liked to go there when she had lots to talk about and had dragged Della there despite her friend's protests, because tonight was definitely one of those nights.

  “And then he told me that Cal had gone off the Net. His tag is no longer working.”

  “What?”

  “I know. This is all so weird, I can't get my head around it.”

  A waitress appeared and Ginny ordered two more Martinis.

  “Steady girl,” said Della. “It's all right for you self-employed types, but I've got to go to work in the morning.”

  “Turn off your drip, then. After a day like today, I need the booze.” Most tanks these days would feed an alcohol solution into your veins, at a rate matched to your virtual consumption, so that drinking in bars could deliver the genuine pre-augmentation experience.

  Della rolled her eyes and took a pull at her drink. “What the hell? Why should you have all the fun? Tell me more.”

  “That's it, really. The cop left and I sat and brooded all day until you left work.”

  “Have you tried calling Cal again?”

  “Like every ten minutes!” She sipped her drink and stared out at the tiny lights of cars moving between the skyscrapers. “What do you think, Della? Should I take the package to Detective Sergeant Dickhead and just wash my hands of it all?”

  Della looked at her with sympathetic eyes. “You like Cal don't you?”

  “What's that got to do with anything?” Ginny said, although she knew perfectly well what Della meant.

  “You're worried about him.”

  “Well, duh. The guy disappears without trace, the police are after him, and before he leaves, he asks me to deliver a mysterious package. Of course I'm worried. The cop said he might be dead.”

  “And you haven't opened the package?”

  “No. I don't want to know what's in it. I don't want to be more involved in this than I have to be.”

  Della grinned and looked into her friend's eyes. “You're going to deliver it, aren't you? Oh my God, you're going to go and see this crim – what's his name?”

  “Gavin.”

  “Gavin – and give him the drugs, or whatever. You've made up your mind already, haven't you?”

  “No. That's why I'm here. So you can talk me into doing the sensible thing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Well, going to the police, I suppose.”

  Still grinning, Della picked up her glass and sat back, watching Ginny over the rim. “The philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre, once had a student come up to him after a lecture and ask – ”

  “What the hell are you taking about?” Della had studied French Literature at university and was full of anecdotes about people Ginny had never heard of.

  Della just grinned more widely. “The student asked the great man for his advice about breaking up with his girlfriend.” Ginny sighed heavily and resigned herself to listening to whatever this nonsense was. “Sartre dismissed the lad with an airy wave of his hand saying, 'You already know what to do. Don't bother me with questions to which you already know the answer.' 'But – but –' the boy stammered – ”

  “Della, for heavens' sake. Does this have a point? I need you to talk sense right now.”

  “That's just it. Sartre told the student off because the boy must have known already what his teacher thought about the matter and that's why he went to Sartre for advice and not someone else. He didn't really want advice, he just wanted authority for a decision he'd already made.”

  “And you think that's why I asked you out tonight, so you can tell me what I want to hear?”

  “Précisément !”

  “Well I wish I'd asked Kerry.”

  “Kerry's too timid. She'd have said go to the police.”

  “Well, I should.”

  “Really? And ignore Cal's last request?”

  “Cal's not dead.”

  “But he might be, and if he isn't and there's something illegal in that package, you'd be getting him into even more trouble.”

  “You're supposed to be the sensible one.”

  But Della was right on both counts. Ginny had already made up her mind to take the package to Gavin, and she had thought that Della would agree with her, once she heard her reasons. It was irritating to find she was so transparent. She waved the ever-attentive waitress over and asked for two more Martinis. It was an expensive place and the drinks weren't free but now that she knew what she intended to do, getting blitzed seemed like an even more attractive idea than before. She'd regret it in the morning but she didn't want to think about that now.

  She downed the drink as soon as it arrived. “Let's go to some seedy old bar somewhere and get pissed,” she said. “I want to pick up some young stud and forget about Cal and his bloody package.”

  Della gulped back her own Martini and raised the glass. “To forgetting!” she shouted, drawing looks from around the room.

  -oOo-

  When Ginny woke up the next morning, she was still in the tank and still unlatched. The default worldlet was running, which at that time of day was a café on a Greek island, overlooking the Aegean Sea and the rising sun. Her memories of last night were a little blurry but the seedy bar, the pickup, and cyber-sex in some kind of Roman villa, all featured in the mix. She triggered the tank's lid and it lifted off her. Raising her head from the deeply-padded contours of the seat was a mistake. While the padding held it, it had been fine. Now that her neck was doing the job, pain hit her like a plank across the forehead. She let her head settle again.

  Too old for that kind of thing, she told herself, and hoped she'd remember next time.

  For a long while, she reclined in the tank and let her eyelids fall closed against the bright daylight. She lay there, naked and half buried in the padded interior, and wondered how big a dent she had put in her bank account. It was a time to be economising, not splurging. But, apart from the drinks, and the entry fees to at least three places, she had made several costume changes to suit her changing moods and surroundings, each one having to be hired because, for some reason, nothing she owned was just right for the occasion.

  The occasion being getting shit-faced and laid by some complete stranger whose name I can't remember and – Oh God! She recalled that her Romeo didn't even want her number when she offered it to him. Embarrassment and misery flooded her.

  And she still had to take that damned package round to some petty gangster called Gavin, only now with a hangover and even more of a need to be working instead of wasting her time.

  Her tank was comfortable and warm. A soft and contoured seat that fitted her snugly with separate depressions for each arm and leg, it tilted her back and let her body relax while her mind roved through virtual worlds. A set of drips clipped to a
corresponding set of permanently-attached catheters on her upper arm kept her fed and hydrated, delivered alcohol – and other recreational drugs if you were that way inclined – and a cunning bidet-cum-potty arrangement made sure that visits to the bathroom could also be simulated. With enough nutrients in the drips, you could stay in the tank for days. And many people did. With the padded lid in place, you were immobilised and couldn't hurt yourself if you tried. Better than your mother's womb, as the ads for one brand said. Ginny, however, didn't even like to stay in hers for more than a few hours at a stretch.

  She climbed out, groaning, switched the tank onto a self-cleaning cycle, and padded across to the shower to let the hot water do what it could to freshen her up. There were two messages waiting for her, one from her mother and the other from the cop, Richards, both asking her to call. Ginny found the idea of talking to either equally unpleasant, but, in the end, even her mother was preferable to the cop.

  “Ginny! My baby! Oh, thank heavens you called. I thought you were just going to ignore me again, even at this awful time.”

  “Hello, Mum. I'm fine. How are you?”

  “Oh, I suppose I deserve it. You sacrifice everything, you give up your life to raise a child, you teach her that your life revolves around making her happy, and what's the result? She cares only for herself. Well, it's my fault I spoiled you so much. And now, in my moment of need, all you can think about are your own feelings. Your Dad said I shouldn't call. He said it would only upset me more.”

  Ginny gritted her teeth. Even for her mother this was pretty extreme. “Why don't you just tell me what's wrong, Mum?”

  “Oh this is a fine state of affairs. A mother having to call her own daughter to break the bad news. If you called me even once a week, you'd know what was going on. We wouldn't be like strangers. I suppose you just don't care. You've got your glamorous career as a composer and you don't care what becomes of your old Mum. You forget who made you practice the piano when you were a little girl, who bought you your first clarinet, who – ”

  “Mum, I've got to go out in a minute. Was there something particular you wanted to talk about?”

  “Something particular? Something particular?” Ginny closed her eyes and tried to stay calm. “I suppose being under sentence of death is something particular. I reckon your mother dying might be worth taking a few moments out of your busy schedule. Or am I wrong? You weren't even answering your phone last night. You were probably out at some fancy party. Sharon's kids are just the same. That boy of hers spends half his life in the tank, spaced out on drugs, while his mother gets the job of filling up his drips so he doesn't just die in there.”

  “Would that be Sharon's son Jake? The boof-head you wanted me to marry not so many years ago?”

  “You'd have made a fine couple. He doesn't care if his mother lives or dies either.”

  A deep breath. “So you're crook, is that it? You called to tell me how sick you are?”

  “Sick? Well that's one way of putting it. Look, I know you don't want to, nobody wants to travel any more, but I think you should probably get on a plane and come down here. I may not have very long.”

  Despite herself, Ginny felt a touch of anxiety. As much as she knew from a lifetime of experience that her mother was a raving hypochondriac, she supposed that one day there just might be something serious wrong with her. “Mum, what is it? What's the matter?”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line, Ginny imagined her mother steeling herself to make some awful revelation. When her mother spoke, there was a tremor in her voice. “Darling, now don't get hysterical. It's all right. Really. I'm coping fine and your Dad's been so wonderful and kind.”

  Dad's been so wonderful and kind? Now Ginny was really worried. She couldn't remember her mum ever having a good word for her father. “Shit, Mum, what's wrong with you?”

  “It's... I... I have breast cancer, darling.”

  Ginny's temper fizzed up to boiling point in an instant. “Breast cancer? Is that all? They've been able to cure breast cancer for decades! You won't even need to go to hospital. An AIGP will be able to do it all remotely. For God's sake, Mum! Breast cancer?”

  Her mother was defensive, perhaps even a little abashed. “People die of breast cancer all the time.”

  “No they don't. The used to, when you were a little girl, maybe, but not in my lifetime. Jesus, Mum. Did you even talk to a doctor?”

  “I got a test. One of those kit things.”

  “Call a doctor, Mum. Do it right now. Don't waste your money on a human GP, spend a bit and call an AI, they'll tell you all about it and what you have to do.”

  “I'm sure I've heard of people dying – ”

  “Well, you're not. You'll be fine. Just call the doctor and they'll sort you out. Look, Mum. I really have to go now. I'm late for something.” The silence stretched out a few seconds. “I'll call you soon to find out how you got on, OK? Catch you later.”

  She hung up before her mother thought of some other crazy problem to keep her on the line.

  Standing in the kitchenette, taking deep breaths to calm herself down, she nevertheless sent out a bot to gather the latest on breast cancer, its treatment and prognosis. Just in case. One day her crazy mother wouldn't be crying wolf. One day something terrible would happen. Ginny could easily imagine the tonnage of guilt that would descend on her on that day. The least she could do to avoid just a few kilos of it was to be sure of her facts.

  Detective Sergeant Dover Richards picked up on the first ring. “Hi Ginny, thanks for returning my call.” He looked fresh and eager, keen to be about his business. “How are you today?”

  “Hungover, thanks. Yourself?”

  “I don't drink.” What a surprise. “I forgot to ask you yesterday if you knew any of Mr. Copplin's friends.”

  “No you didn't?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You didn't forget to ask. You asked me. I said no I didn't.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I must be going senile,” he said, laughing. Ginny waited to find out what the call was really about. “Ah well, sorry to have bothered you. You look like you just got out the shower. Do you always get up this late?”

  Ginny checked the time. The morning was half gone already. As before, the cop's tone and his questions irritated her. “Is that a crime now?” she asked, surprised at her own belligerence. The last thing she needed to do right now was antagonise this nosy policeman.

  He laughed again. “If it was I could arrest half the city. So you were out on the town last night, then?”

  “I'm sorry, Detective Sergeant Richards but – ”

  “Dover, please.”

  “ – but I'm a bit behind schedule, as you can imagine. I really need to get on.”

  “Don't you want to know how we're getting on finding your friend?”

  The moment seemed to freeze. It hadn't even occurred to Ginny to ask. She realised she had begun to think of Dover Richards as the enemy, not as someone who would help Cal, but who was hunting her friend down to pin something on him. Given the package in her overalls pocket, the evidence that Cal was some kind of crook looked pretty strong even in her own eyes, so her attitude to the policeman seemed a just a little odd.

  “I suppose I assumed you'd have told me if there had been any news,” she said.

  He smiled and nodded. “Of course. And I assume the same thing about you, Ginny. I'll let you get on with your day, then. Anything good planned?”

  “Just the usual.” She said goodbye and hung up. Every time she spoke to the man it felt as though he was poking around in her dustbin, or rummaging in her underwear drawer.

  She checked the address written on the package. It was too far away to walk but she didn't want to catch a cab and leave a record of her journey. It occurred to her that the police could just track her tag if they wanted to. They could know anything and everything she did. But why would they? Just because she knew someone who had gone mis
sing, what reason was that to follow someone? Besides, weren't there laws? Didn't they need warrants and stuff like that? She told herself she was being paranoid. She derided herself for letting Cal and his stupid package spook her like that. All the same, she vowed that, once she had passed on whatever it was Cal had dumped on her, she was never, ever going to do anything so idiotic again, no matter what.

  She went out the back of the building. A shed stood in the yard and she needed something from it. She hadn't been in there since she started renting her unit, five years ago. It was full of old junk and she remembered thinking at the time that some of it was probably worth salvaging and restoring to sell as antiques. Some people liked to have an old piece of real furniture, or some old tool – like Ginny and her electric piano – to display in their home. But she had never got round to it and wouldn't know how to restore an old sewing machine, or whatever, anyway.

  The shed had a padlock on it, not a metaphorical padlock that was really an electronic lock that would open at a thought, but a real one, heavy and strong and requiring a key she had lost years ago.

  She switched to minimal augmentation and saw the shed as it really was, decrepit and half rotten, the padlock coated in dark efflorescences of rust. The yard itself was a mess, the shrubs and flower beds revealed as tall weeds growing between cracked concrete and heaps of builder's rubble. She said a little prayer of thanks to the landlord who kept the virtual image of her building and its environs clean and attractive. She found a brick in the rubbish and picked it up, surprised by its roughness and weight. Reality was so much more unpleasant than the augmented lives people led. It was easy to see why augmentation had been so quickly and universally adopted once it became available.