"Well, have you?"
"What, did you see me having coffee with someone and conclude that the man must be a lover? Are you fucking watching me?"
Raymond felt very silly. The only basis he had for his accusation was a vague suggestive comment from a private investigator who was trying to get under his skin.
"That's it, Raymond. That is it! You're a fucking freak, and I can't deal with it anymore. I need to move on. Goodbye."
"I wasn't saying you were actually—"
The connection dropped.
"Fine!" yelled Raymond. "Fine. I am a fucking freak. I'm a freak—I don't belong. It's time for me to move on, too. Goodbye, fucking world."
o-------------------------------o
Twenty minutes later, Raymond was in a v-chamber arcade. The manager, a college kid for whom Raymond had done some favors over the years, was happy to let Raymond patch an encryption module onto one of the v-chambers and reroute its network connection, no questions asked. Raymond fired up the old chamber and—as Celia—was soon in Celia's repair shop in Delta Nuevo. Rats scattered when he turned the lights on. He hadn't been to the shop in ages. He was a little surprised that his lease was still good. The auto-renew feature must have actually worked. He paced now, nervous, wondering why Manolo would want to meet.
The buzzer seethed and popped, followed by the sound of skittering rodents. Raymond walked downstairs, checked the security screen, and saw Manolo standing just outside.
"Come in."
Raymond gestured for Manolo to lead up the stairs, then followed.
"Your tools are dusty. You have been away a long time, haven't you."
"No, I hire a service to spread a fine layer of dust everywhere."
Manolo paid no heed to his sarcasm. He wandered, looking about, picking up tools and inspecting them with a degree of interest that struck Raymond as an affectation.
"So," said Manolo, turning a small radial cutter in his hand, "I did a little research into your background. Looks like you've covered your tracks pretty well through the years. You came up pretty clean. According to Bureau records, you live at 727 East Kingsley Drive."
"I've been careful."
"But not careful enough... or you wouldn't have come to me." Manolo turned and faced him straight on. "So what is it? It's something to do with this upload project you're working on."
As careful as Raymond had been, so much of his life was out in the open. All it took was an IID, and Manolo could discover his real name, his address history, his place of employment, his school records—and much more. And of course Manolo would know about the upload project—it was all over the news. Raymond chose not to respond. He took a deep breath and narrowed his gaze, wondering what Manolo's motive might be.
"So, let's see," continued Manolo, starting to wander around the shop again. "You want Bureau data scoured—you must be hiding from the Bureau. The Bureau is all over your little upload project, because of a network security breach and some missing hardware."
Raymond winced at the word "missing". Had Manolo surmised that the equipment was missing, or was it described that way in FBI reports? Raymond's false footage had shown the NBCs being bagged, smashed, and carried away. Had they not bought the footage after all?
"Very valuable hardware," continued Manolo. "The sort of thing one might want to steal. To sell, perhaps... but you don't seem the type. So I asked myself, 'Why else might he want top-dollar research hardware that he already had access to?' You want to take the research in your own direction, don't you? The journals all say you're years from being able to upload a human. Do you think that's true?"
"Absolutely."
"Really? Years? That's a shame. A lot of great people are going to die in the next few years—people who wouldn't have to die, if they could upload. Does that weigh on you?"
Raymond shrugged. "You get used to it, I guess. I mean, we're moving as fast as we can. But we don't know that it will ever work for humans. And with the ESW decision—"
"You realize what it would be worth, don't you? I'm not just talking money. What wouldn't a dying man give to drink from the digital fountain of youth? With the power to upload even one person, you would command the attention of the world's most powerful people. I mean truly powerful people—the likes of which you probably don't even know about. You don't realize what you have on your hands, do you? Of course not—how could you?"
"It's not like that," scoffed Raymond.
"No?" Manolo's keenly perceptive gaze slid past Raymond's every defense, inspecting his inner thoughts as easily as he did Celia's tools. "Are you sure?"
Raymond felt himself wither. He looked away, and he hated himself for being weak—for putting himself in a position where he was no longer in control.
"And then we have this motor home where you've been living," continued Manolo, stepping away again. "Parked on property owned by one Ivar Svensson. There's a motor home titled to Ivar Svensson, but there's no record of him—"
"Listen," interrupted Raymond, trying to assert himself. "I'm tired and my girlfriend just dumped me. Let's cut the bullshit. You've got a nice handful of puzzle pieces. You think you've got something on me, and what—you're looking for something more from me? Thus far, I've counted you as a friend, Manolo. I would hate to see you forfeit my good opinion of you."
Manolo smiled wickedly.
"What the hell do you want?" asked Raymond. "Cash? You've never struck me as a man hard-up for cash."
Manolo moved towards him, still holding the cutter. "You don't think I'd blackmail you, do you?"
Without breaking eye contact, Raymond made sure he knew where Manolo's hands were.
"To be perfectly candid, Manolo, you don't seem above blackmail."
Manolo laughed at this. "It's simple, Raymond. What I want is very simple. I want you to know..." He leaned forward and spoke into Raymond's ear. "... that I have you by the cojones."
Raymond leaned away and took a step back, still tracking Manolo's movements.
"I don't want you as an enemy," continued Manolo, relaxing his delivery. "Who needs more enemies? And I bet you could fuck a dude up pretty good. But when I need you as an ally... you catch my drift?"
"Sure." Raymond felt his muscles relax. "That's only reasonable. You've scratched my back. I know how it goes."
"Alright then. We have an understanding."
"Tell me one thing," said Raymond. "How much of all this does your man on the inside know?"
"Not a thing."
"And you still agree to all the cleanup we discussed?"
"Of course. It's taken care of. I just wanted to... make sure you understand my position."
Raymond nodded. "You make yourself very clear. Now, I'm sorry, but I really must be going."
"Not to worry. I can show myself out." Manolo walked to the top of the stairs, then turned. "I too am a busy man. Though perhaps not so desperate."
As soon as Raymond heard the door close behind Manolo, he looked to the ceiling, closed his eyes, and—shaking his head—quietly swore over and over.
He jacked straight out from Celia's shop, leaving her to clean the place up. He didn't much care what happened to her at this point. It was time to upload. He had every reason to leave this world, and only one reason to wait.
o-------------------------------o
Raymond arrived at Anya's apartment on bike. As expected, he saw no light through the windows. She had left him a message, apologizing and saying she would be out for the evening with Suma, and maybe they could talk things through afterward. It was only 9:30 now, and she had said she would probably be back by 11:00, but Raymond knew she was rarely home before midnight from her outings with Suma. He rapped his cold knuckles on the door, to make sure she wasn't there. No answer.
Time to say goodbye.
He rolled his bike around back, crunching through dry leaves, and leaned it against the rear of the house, just beneath her kitchen window. Making sure the bike was stably situated, he stepped gingerly up on
to the frame, bringing him level with the window. He lifted the screen up out of its slot, lowered it part way to the ground, and dropped it in such a way that it fell away from the house, to minimize noise. From within his jacket he produced a thin-bladed knife, a favorite tool he rarely had the opportunity to use. He slid it between the outer and inner frames of the old window and popped it up with the palm of his hand. Flakes of paint fell onto his wrist, felt ticklish against his skin. In less than a minute, he had the lock open and the window up. He returned the blade to its inner pocket and pulled himself through.
Once inside, he dusted himself off, closed the window behind him, and stood in the kitchen, listening. He heard slowly throbbing ambient music from the upstairs apartment. The quiet whining and whirring of Anya's old refrigerator. The ticking of the antique wall clock. Nothing to indicate that he was not alone.
He walked into her living room, tossed his jacket on the sofa, and entered her v-chamber. A soft yellow light filled the small interior space. The door closed behind him and the unit turned on, gently lifting him off the ground. The air warmed, his feet landed on what felt like a hard tile floor, and a room took form around him.
Bright morning light filtered through sheer white curtains that lifted and fell with a breeze. The air smelled of sea salt. Gulls could be heard outside, and the crash of ocean surf. The walls were papered with a quaint floral print of purple and yellow flowers.
The space had the architecture of an old home, but the décor of a commercial space. There was a wood-framed reception window in front of him, on the ledge of which sat an old-fashioned metal hotel bell. He looked around him. There were several doors, open windows at either end of the room, a narrow wooden staircase up to the second floor. Next to the hotel bell was a little iron business card holder. Raymond looked at the front card, noting that the elegant calligraphy was in a foreign language—Portuguese, he guessed.
"I'd like to leave a message for Anya," he said. He expected to be transferred to a standard v-chamber service interface, but there was no change.
"Admin mode," he said, hoping to bypass this program, which was apparently Anya's default interface. Instead, a short, smartly dressed, middle-aged woman stepped up behind the reception desk. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled back tightly away from her face. Her movements were slow, but graceful and deliberate.
"I'm sorry, sir" she said in a warm, lush Portuguese accent. "I didn't hear you come in. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'd like to leave a message for Anya."
"Of course. Just a moment." The woman moved to one side and picked up a pen and paper.
"Oh please," moaned Raymond. That was not the sort of message he had in mind. "Exit world. Jack out. Close program."
The woman tilted her head and leaned toward Raymond, her eyes narrowed in a look of utter consternation.
"Exit bleeding world," said Raymond. "I want to leave a voice-visual message for Anya."
"Young man," scolded the woman, "there is no need for such language. There's a comm booth just down the beach. Out that door, to your right. It's just past the ice cream stand."
The door to which the woman pointed swung open, and in walked a Mediterranean-looking man, a little older than Raymond, with wavy black hair, wearing tailored light gray slacks and a loose-fitting white linen shirt, finely detailed with vertical stripes. The man entered smiling, but his appearance hardened as he comprehended the situation. He crossed to the reception booth and tentatively greeted the woman in what sounded to Raymond to be Portuguese.
"And I suppose," muttered Raymond, "that you're Anya's virtual Latin lover."
The man turned on Raymond and shot him a severe, disapproving look.
"Who are you," he asked in a thick accent, "and how do you know Anya?"
"Listen, can you tell me how to get out of this program?"
The man's look turned to one of exasperation. "There is a newbie entrance for a reason. Do you not know how to operate your v-chamber?"
"Very funny. As if you didn't know that this is Anya's v-chamber."
"How should I know whose..."
The man trailed off. It suddenly occurred to Raymond that Anya's default interface might be a public v-world, and that the man to whom he was speaking might be the avatar of a real person.
"But, you must be Raymond," said the man.
"I am so sorry. I, um, I mean, what I would like to know is how to exit this v-world."
"Hail a cab. Or go to the bathroom. Every cab and bathroom is a gateway."
"Right," replied Raymond, drawing the word out. He turned to the receptionist. "So, is there a bathroom I could use?"
o-------------------------------o
Soon Raymond was out of the v-world, at a standard v-chamber interface, feeling vexed and embarrassed. And angry. He struggled to subdue his jealousy. For all he knew, the man was just some guy she had met online.
And at this point, what does it fucking matter?
"Voice-visual message for Anya," he instructed.
The space changed to look like a public comm booth. One wall was taken up by a feedback screen, on which he saw an image of himself. On the opposite wall was a plastic seat, bolted to the metal floor.
"You may begin," announced a generic female service voice.
"Could I get something a little less austere?" asked Raymond.
"Would you like to select from the menu of available comm booth environments?"
Raymond rolled his eyes.
"Will I be able to edit this when I'm done?"
"Yes," replied the woman. "Shall I start over?"
"No. No. Okay." Raymond shifted restlessly, looked at the floor, then at the feedback screen. "Well, Anya, I'm in your apartment, and you could walk in any minute, so I'd better get started. I wanted to give you a proper goodbye."
He had composed bits and pieces of his goodbye to Anya in his head, but he found himself drawing a blank now. He ran his hand through his hair.
I'm saying goodbye to Anya forever, and I have no idea what to say?
"Okay, start over," he instructed.
"Starting over. You may begin."
Raymond looked himself in the eyes and took a deep breath.
"Anya. If you're seeing this, then my attempt to upload failed. Which means I'm dead, I guess. And I'm sorry. I don't know how hard you're taking it. For all I know, you might feel relieved. Like you can move on, with a clean slate. No, I... Well, never mind that. I'm sorry I risked my life, and I want you to understand why I did it."
Raymond sat in the plastic chair and leaned forward heavily, his elbows on his knees.
"First of all, you should know how much I love you. I know I have a way of screwing things up. Things never seem to go quite right. I'm just not what you need in a man. I can't be. I hide too much, I know." He smiled, lowered his gaze momentarily. He was starting to feel like he was really speaking to Anya. "And I give too little, I guess." He nodded at this small self-realization. "You give a lot, and I give too little."
He leaned back and crossed his arms, his gaze drifting.
"I know it's gotta be frustrating for you—dealing with me, I mean. I've never been able to be open with you, partially with good reason. Now, I might die soon." He felt something catch in his throat. Saying it out loud, to another person, it suddenly seemed real.
He looked into the eyes of his mirror image. "I might die. I don't know if I've ever really understood what that means. And if you're seeing this... what I'm saying—it must be so frustrating, dealing with me. But you tried. You're the only person I ever came close to opening up to. I wish I could have. But... well, you're about to see why I couldn't."
He ran his hand through his hair again.
"Remember I told you how I grew up in state homes? When I was fifteen, living in the Canal Street Home, I got this job, as the groundskeeper/repairman for a rich old retiree—Nicholas Tate, the missing person that the PI was asking you about."
He told her a little about Tat
e's background, how he spent all his time in a v-chamber, and what it was like to work there.
"Once in a while, he would come upstairs and want to talk to me. He would ask me about my life, how bad things were at the Home. He was always fishing for gratitude. I think he wanted to feel good about himself, like he was doing something for the real world, like he felt guilty for all the time he spent in v-worlds.
"Tate set up a special account for ongoing expenses and gave me money to convert the garage into a workshop. I used some of the money on things for myself, but mostly I was just excited to have this awesome workshop."
Raymond recalled having wanted to switch some of the details around. He knew this recording would end up being used as evidence against him, and he wanted it to seem like Tate had died a couple years later than he really had; if the police knew when Tate had really died, none of the money-laundering Raymond had done early on would make sense. He shifted in his seat and continued, pretty sure he had the story straight in his head.
"When I turned 18, I was released from Canal Street, and Tate let me stay for a while in his house, until I could find an apartment. He made my job a full-time position, and he said I could work on my projects when I wasn't doing work on his house. Looking back, I guess he was pretty generous with me. I mean, by that time, I had the place running by itself, and I spent my time screwing around. I had all sorts of projects going. I was working on personality sims, natural language, robotics, a-life—that kind of stuff. I guess I was always interested in the line between man and machine.
"I started working on a persona replica of myself—I think I told you about it once. It became my obsession. I would spend entire days in Tate's old spare v-chamber, teaching my replica to be more like me. I eventually got it to a point where people in public v-worlds couldn't tell whether they were talking to me or it.
"It was when I discovered I could hack Tate's v-chamber that things took a bad turn."
He told the story of how he discovered he could hack Tate's v-chamber by tapping into the emergency recognition system.
"Once I had access to his v-chamber, I realized I could record his sessions and have an endless source of material for training a replica. I had no idea what I would do with a Tate replica. It was just this challenge, to make a copy of him without his knowing."
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