"This is where I'd live?"
Janit shook her head and pointed to a low rise, where new homes rose from raw earth. Some were finished, some were still receiving roofs and stucco.
Janit pointed to a small two-story on a corner. “You see that one, the goldenrod one?” She asked. “That's what I had selected for you."
Frank squinted at it. At least it was a corner lot. But it looked like it was pushed right up against the hill behind it. And what would they build there?
"How big is it?” he asked.
"Big enough,” Janit said. “Hey, Bob."
Frank turned. A handsome, sun-burned man was pulling off gardening mitts. “Hey, Janit. Thought I'd come over and welcome the new guy.” He stuck out a hand. “Bob Menendez,” he said.
"Frank Deppo."
Bob blinked. “Like the astronaut? The one who started the moon thing?"
"Yeah. Parents were fans."
"Frank has lots of questions,” Janit said.
Bob laughed. “Don't we all. But—"
There was a crash from Bob's yard where the boulders were being placed. Dayworkers swarmed around the truck.
"Crap,” Bob said. “Better see what that is. Good meeting you, Mr Deppo."
Frank watched him leave. He seemed happy enough. “What does Bob do for a living?"
Janit stared at him. “Nothing. He's tuned. His wife works for Pfizer bioelectronics."
Data scrolled in Frank's monocle, details of his neighbors. Of course. He could have looked at that earlier. The new American credo. Everyone watches everyone else. And in observation, there is security. And truth.
"He seems so normal,” Frank said.
"If you don't know who's who, you'd never guess."
Frank nodded. That was good. That meant his wife might actually be ... real. He remembered whispers in the Seagram's dorm, late at night. They aren't really real. Stepfords. Like robots.
Frank and Janit walked the street and said hello to everyone who was outside. Frank didn't look at his monocle, and tried to guess who was tuned and who was natural. They all seemed to be very natural. Friendly, outgoing, personable. Three tuned and two naturals, probably a pretty average score for a Saturday. Some naturals still working.
"They seem happy,” Frank said.
"Why shouldn't they be?"
Frank shrugged. “It just seems a little plain. Boring cars. Small houses. Little neighborhood."
"This is how you start, Frank."
"It just seems ... like there should be more. Some excitement."
Janit laid her hand on his arm. “Frank, these lifestyles are patterned off the most stable part of our history—the middle of the last century. Of course it'll seem a little familiar, a little regimented. But you have to ask yourself: what kind of excitement do I really want? A war? Economic depression? How about a few car-bombings? Trust me. This is the best of all possible worlds. The best of your life."
Frank sighed. It was true. What did he expect? Riding through the midnight neighborhood on his unmuffled Harley, two mallstead hookers strapped to the back?
Janit's hand was warm on his arm. Frank smiled at her.
Frank's monocle flickered and went blank. His whisperpod gave a blurt of static and fell into smooth, blank silence.
"Reboot,” Frank said.
Nothing.
Janit frowned and tapped at her monocle. She muttered commands under her breath.
"What's happening?” Frank said.
"I don't know."
"My comm is gone."
"So is mine. Hold on. I'm trying.” Janit mumbled more commands and swung the monocle over in front of her eye to eyetype mode. Frank did the same, but none of his commands did anything. Telltales glowed green, but his screen was blank.
"Shit,” Janit said. “All I've got is local processing. No comm."
From the house opposite them came voices, raised shrill in argument. There was a thump and a clatter.
"Come on,” Janit said. “Let's get out of here."
* * * *
The big riveted sheet-iron gate was closed. Janit slowed, frowned, and mumbled into her whisperpod. The gate remained closed.
"What's wrong?” Frank asked.
"I don't know. It should open. Automatically."
"Isn't there an emergency switch or something?” Frank said. He'd been nervous and on-edge since hearing the couple arguing in the house, thinking, This could happen to me, this is happening to me, it's this woman, it's her fault, why didn't I get three LifeStylists, why didn't I get a real one and not an indenture.
"No,” Janit said. She mumbled commands again, then cursed and slammed her hand on the steering wheel.
"Can't we call the police?"
Janit pointed at her whisperpod. “This is how you call the police. Is yours working?"
Irritation flared to anger. This wasn't supposed to happen. This was the first day of the best of his life! “So we're trapped in here? Great. Fuck. Thanks for the wonderful day."
Janit looked at him, her mouth open in surprise. “I ... I'm sorry,” she said.
Frank felt a momentary burst of embarrassment. Maybe he shouldn't have been so harsh with her. But he'd worked for this! He deserved a good life! “How could this happen?” he said, looking away.
"I don't know,” Janit said.
"And there's no way to call the police? Fire? Rescue? No manual switch for the gate?"
"No."
"So if something goes wrong, I'll be trapped in here?"
"No. No. This is weird. When was the last time you lost comm for this long?"
Frank frowned. “Never,” he admitted. And she was right. Everyone watching each other, the security of redundancy, that was what everything was based on.
"I'm sure it'll be back on soon,” Janit said. “I've been running some diagnostics, and it appears that we still have some carrier activity."
A squeal of brakes behind them made Frank turn. He looked into the big chrome grille of a Ford Mountainclimber. A horn sounded.
Janit leaned out the window and shouted something at the driver. The horn sounded again. Janit said something else and pulled herself back into the car. “Idiots,” she said.
The horn sounded again. Janit rolled the window up.
The Mountainclimber's engine revved and the big SUV thumped into the back of their little car, hard. Frank jolted in his seat. He heard plastic crunch.
"Fuck this,” Janit said. She floored the little car did a quick U-turn, clipping the curb and sending multi-colored flowers flying from the verge. Frank had a momentary glimpse of a tiny woman, swerving the big Mountainclimber towards them and shaking a fist. Then they were past and flying into the neighborhood.
"What the hell is going on?” Frank said. His anger surged, white-hot. He had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Janit by the neck. Even after I start my perfect life, I won't be able to forget this. And I already have so much to forget!
"It must be the tuning,” Janit said, hugging the steering wheel and driving quickly into neighborhoods not-yet-framed.
"The tuning?"
"It's maintained in real time via the comm. But I don't know why it would go wrong so fast. The somatic wire is designed to maintain the last real-time tune in the case of a comm failure."
"So we're trapped in here with a bunch of crazy people?"
"I ... well, we shouldn't be."
"Shouldn't be! Tell me how VerV is going to make up for this? You're screwing my entire life!"
Janit looked at him. Another one of those searching looks. “You don't wear a somatic wire, do you?"
"No! Of course not! I'm not tuned!"
"Calm down. It was just a question. A lot of valued wear them too. Easier to Prozac down after a hard day, or amp up for a meeting."
Huh. Frank didn't know that. His anger subsided a little. “What do we do now, oh illustrious LifeStylist?” he asked.
"Find a place to wait it out."
"Where?"
; "How about your house?"
Frank started. Sudden illumination came: Because you think we won't fight as much there, because I won't want to hurt the place I live? How much of this has been calculated? And to what degree?
"Frank?"
"Sure,” Frank said. “Why not?"
Janit turned to look at him. He tried to smile. Play along. Find out what's really going on.
* * * *
The little goldenrod-colored house was nice, Frank had to admit. Outside, little details like the wrought-iron gaslamps and rough-hewn door made it seem like something that wouldn't have been out of place in turn-of-the-century Santa Barbara. Inside, maroon and goldenrod walls rose above off-white Berber carpet. The furniture was rough pine, dark-stained, cast-iron trellis bookcases, and rich leather sofas in shades of evergreen. They'd even stocked the bookcases. Frank scanned the titles. Oenophile and Straits of Napa by Robert Parker's upload, The Bordeaux Picturebook by Ansel Adam's simulation, A Field Guide to Mexican Tequilas, Fast Cars of the 20th Century, Sex and Keeping it Real by VerV, Traveling America, and History of Independent Spaceflight. A grin split Frank's irritation. Someone had a sense of humor.
"You already have it set up,” Frank said.
"Our clients don't want to waste any time getting started with their new lives,” Janit said, sitting on one of the pine chairs in the kitchen/breakfast nook. She frowned. “Not usually, anyway. Is your comm back?"
"No."
Janit sighed. “If you want to look around, feel free. I'm sure we'll be back online soon, and get you started with your life."
"What if I don't want it anymore?” Frank said.
"What?"
Frank smiled. The shock on her face was good to see. Let's see her squirm some more.
"Maybe I should upload,” he said.
"Sure,” Janit said. “Get your brain deli-sliced and become one of those insufferable bastards who loses all their friends because all you can talk about is how great it is in here, how wonderful it can be, why don't you join me, you don't know what you're missing. Or irritate enough people that they attach a phage to your ass. Or get copied a thousand times and end up stealing your own girlfriend from yourself for fun. Sure. And let's just ignore the question of whether or not the upload is really you."
Frank nodded. “That the standard speech?"
"What?"
"The one you use on all your clients?"
"It's the truth!"
Frank barked harsh laughter. “Sure it is. I know some of those upload assholes. But you're just so smooth, so sure, so perfect."
Janit bit her lip and looked away.
"What about going independent?” Frank said.
"You'd never do that."
"Oh, you know me so well, do you?"
"It's my job."
"What about it, though? Why shouldn't I go independent?” Frank said.
"It's a great dream,” Janit said. “But it quickly turns into a nightmare when the corporate IP specialists come with the defoliants and retroviruses and shut down your house's genes. They don't want to lose any more of their secrets, and they have no problem getting ugly."
Frank laughed. “That's really smooth, too. What's the chance of me being involved in an IP attack? Does your class-1 know that?"
"I don't know."
"Is it more or less than the chance of our little incident today?"
"I don't know."
"More or less than the chance of me getting a wife that I hate?"
"I don't know!"
"More or less than the chance of you coming in, six months later, and saying, hey, it's time to add to the family, put in a few kids, because your suppliers have a surplus of blanks?"
"Stop it!” Janit yelled, standing. The rough pine chair clattered to the perfect tile floor. “I know why you're acting like this, I know, and I shouldn't—"
The acrid smell of smoke hit Frank, hard, and he held up a hand. “Wait. Do you smell that?"
Janit's eyes widened. They ran to the front picture-window and looked down. The neighborhood below them was on fire. People ran from burning homes to waiting cars. Orange-red flames and dark smoke roiled up the hill towards his house. As Frank watched, the flames jumped to the unoccupied houses at the edge of his neighborhood.
"So what do we do now, Ms LifeStylist? Do I have to pay extra for all this excitement?"
Janit's eyes narrowed, and her hands clenched into fists. “I had nothing to do with this. You know VerV can't be responsible."
"Spare me the lawyer-approved disclaimers,” Frank said. “What do we do?"
"We get out of here,” she said.
"Again?"
Silence. Then, grudgingly, “Again."
* * * *
They drove up towards the low rise where the shopping center was growing. As they rose above the level of the wall, Frank could see the late-afternoon sweep of the San Fernando Valley, brilliant in reflected sunlight. Far-off, brilliant white walls marked other VerV enclaves on the south side of the Valley. From each enclave, columns of smoke rose. Red fire licked up through the smoke in the nearest enclave.
"Oh my God,” Janit said, coasting to a stop.
Frank laughed. He laughed long and hard. Because if he didn't laugh, he was going to take Janit's neck in his hands and beat her head against the window and say, give me my life back, give it back, no hundred-hour week was as bad as this.
"That's the Encino Enclave,” she said. “That was complete. Fourteen thousand people."
"Now Cajun-style,” Frank said. “Probably go nice with a good Pinot Noir. I could design it so the blackcurrant sets off the pepper perfectly."
Janit just looked at him.
Helicopters wove through the smoke, dropping bright orange fire retardant.
"Fire's on-scene,” Janit said.
"So?"
"They'll come and let us out soon. It's almost over."
"I don't see them here."
Janit frowned and said nothing.
"I'll bet they want to finish with the finished enclaves first,” Frank said. “What do you want to bet?"
"We can wait. There's lots of places here that aren't built yet. Dirt won't burn."
"That'll help a lot if we're in the wrong place when the wind changes. Smoke'll kill you too."
Janit frowned. Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away and pounded on the steering wheel in frustration. Frank smiled. It felt good.
"I don't know what to do!” Janit cried, tears streaming.
What's wrong with you, he wondered. You shouldn't be having fun torturing the poor girl. He forced himself to put a hand on her shoulder. She sobbed and buried her face in his shirt. He felt warm tears on his chest.
And yet still the anger burned.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He shouldn't be acting like this. Something was influencing him.
The comm.
There was still activity, below the top level...
Frank pushed off his whisperpod and disconnected his monocle. The left side of his face felt cold and strange. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and saw puckered, pasty-white skin where the two devices had been attached for months.
He was still angry. Still. Still. But...
The anger faded, banking down to a dull-red glow. Yes, he was angry. But he was angry at VerV. And whoever did this. Not Janit.
He turned to face her. She goggled at him. “Take off your whisperpod and monocle,” he said. “Someone's broadcasting something. Subliminals. Don't know. But it's something bad. I wanted to kill you."
Janit shook her head. “Subliminals won't make people do this,” she said, pointing at the fire.
"What if they're affecting the somatic wire?"
Janit's eyes widened, and she nodded. “Yes. Yes. That makes sense!” She pulled off her whisperpod and monocle, revealing white flesh.
"Now we just need to get out of here,” Frank said.
"We can just wait it out. We can drive out of the
smoke if it comes towards us."
Frank looked up at the hill where the shopping center was taking shape. Smartdozers still scraped the golden earth, unaware and uninterested in what was going on around them.
He smiled. “I have an idea."
* * * *
"No,” the smartdozer said.
"It'll only take a few minutes,” Frank said. “Push open the gate for us, and you can get back to work."
"Destruction of VerV property. Measurably reduced efficiency. No."
"But you'll be helping people,” Janit said.
"Coded only to not hurt. No."
"We'll pay you."
The smartdozer stopped. “You have access to machine virtualities and entertainments?"
"Uh, no,” Frank admitted. Janit shook her head.
"No."
"Please?"
"No,” the smartdozer said, and turned slowly back to its business.
"Now what?” Janit said.
Frank frowned. There were four smartdozers working crawling over the golden earth. Three worked quickly and efficiently on a hill, throwing up great clouds of dust. They'd just talked to one of them. But a fourth worked down near the finished shops, going back and forth slowly over land that looked like it was going to be an extension of the parking lot. It lacked the shiny new yellow paint and smooth minimalist lines of the other three.
"Let's try that one,” Frank said.
She frowned at him. “I wonder if it's even set up for voice."
It was. A big rusty speaker-grille was set into one side of the machine, set off with yellow and black striped tape.
"Hey,” Frank said. “We need some help."
The big machine stopped moving. It was thickly crusted with rust where the dirt couldn't polish the metal to a dull luster. It seemed old enough to have been converted from a dumb machine.
"What type of help?” a low, grating voice said.
"We need to open the gates."
"Emergency comm unavailable."
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #213 Page 11