Kaleidocide (14 page)

“I don't,” the boy said, his child's voice still irritated. “I was born a poly, I can't help it, and that's the point of poly rights. Again, would you tell someone that being black is a ‘problem,' or being white, or gay or straight?”

“I guess not,” she said, and then finally went too far. “But still, maybe you could … change somehow.”

“Listen,” he said. “If you're going to be a journalist, you'd better read up on your science. The experts say that kind of ignorant talk fills people with guilt and shame, and kills their self-esteem. I don't think I can change what I am. When I took the medication I told you about, I was different. And when I stopped taking it, I went back to the way I was. That's proof this is the way my brain works. And someone else may want to go on living without being able to be happy, but not me.”

The boy reached down to scratch his knee, and the pantsuited woman could somehow tell that in real life he was reaching for the pills. The interview was now over, and the Exit was about to begin.

 

15

ONLY YOUR LIFE

The five-year-old boy in the Web site sat still and didn't move, since it was a rudimentary net skin not slaved to the man's body. But the man himself, in the real world, had been lifting a bottle filled with pills and another one filled with water, which he'd placed by his feet.

Then the Asian angels appeared.

They gently faded into the middle of the room and formed a triangle, facing out, like last time.

“Excuse me,” all three said at the same time, “but are you still alive?” The skins often remained in the rooms at Exit for a while after someone committed suicide, until they were cleared out by the site's monitor constructs. Since this particular skin wasn't moving at all, it seemed like a prime candidate for that ghostly effect.

“J.J.?” asked the slightly pregnant journalist, who wore the much better skin that looked and moved like she did. More silent moments passed, and she feared the worst. “Did you take the pills?”

“No, not yet,” said the young voice finally. “My mouth was just hanging open when I saw them. How do they get into these places without permission?”

“Jonathan James Cates,” the one closest to the boy said, ignoring his question. “You have been selected to continue toward a possible one million dollars and a new life, in exchange for a brief employment. If you are willing to take the next step and be interviewed, please respond by saying ‘Yes, I am willing to be interviewed,' or select this link.” It appeared in her right hand. “And remember that our ability to deliver what we promise has been certified by Reality G.” That link appeared in her left hand.

“Asked to do two interviews in one day,” the boy said. “I'm Mr. Popularity all of a sudden. I should kill myself more often.”

“Do it, J.J.,” the woman said, not hearing his joke because she was intent on making use of this opportunity to save his life. Her mothering instincts were in full gear after spending even this short amount of time with him.

“Kill myself?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Heavens no,” she said, aghast. “Do the interview!”

“Why should I?” he asked, though he probably already knew the answer.

“What have you got to lose?” she answered, echoing what he had said earlier. “And look what you could gain. With that money you could buy treatment, and start over.”

“Yeah, but what they want me to do for that money could be worse than what I'm running from.”

“All you have to do is be willing to die, which you already are.” This came from the ad construct, which was apparently programmed to respond in this way to questions like “What do you want me to do?”

“The rest is not difficult at all,” it continued.

“What have I got to lose?” the boy said to himself, or the woman, or both.

“Only your life,” the construct replied, with another programmed response. “The same thing you came here to lose.”

The boy leaned back and put his hands behind his head, and after a few moments said, “Okay, I'll do the interview. What have I…” He paused.

“… got to lose,” the pregnant woman said with a smile, and the construct did not respond this time. In fact, the three Asian models didn't say anything and there was a long, awkward silence.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said with his prepubescent lisp. “What are the code words you said … Open Sesame?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm having difficulty understanding what you're saying. Please try again.”

“What am I supposed to say to agree to the interview? I forget.”

“Please respond by saying, ‘Yes, I am willing to be interviewed,' or select this link.”

“Yes, I am willing to be interviewed.”

“Thank you,” they all said, and then they disappeared.

“Not again,” the boy said, and began rocking back and forth on the air. “I'm not waiting around for—”

They appeared again, looking the same, but the boy could sense that there was something different about them.

“Mr. Cates,” the one closest to him said. She immediately seemed more human somehow, in facial and body movements. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I'd shake your hand, but…” She shrugged and smiled, something that the construct would not have done previously.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ni. The advertisement A.I. you spoke to was designed by my sisters and me, based on what we want to look like. Sometimes. But we are short on time, and must get down to business. Before we go any further, we have to ask you another question that wasn't on the survey.”

“Okay,” the boy said.

“Do you have any opinions about the current Chinese government?”

Which way does she want me to answer?
he wondered, but then decided that honesty was the best policy.

“Not really, except they seem a bit scary to me.”

“How so?”

“I was a history teacher, so I know enough about China to know that they have an imperialistic streak. And the guy who they say is really in power was involved in Taiwan and the annexations, right?” He paused. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because our boss just wasted twelve minutes and thirty-two-point-four seconds of his precious time talking to the last candidate, before we realized that he was a Chinese sympathizer.”

The little boy had no response, except to pick his nose again.

“Here, let us fix that for you,” Ni said with a grimace. Almost instantaneously the little boy disappeared and a well-dressed adult male with a beard took his place, still sitting, but now with a chair under him. The resolution was much higher.

“How did you do that?” Jon Cates asked, speaking now in his own voice.

“We took over the net closet you're in at the library and upgraded it,” Ni answered, “and used one of the holos you gave us for your skin.”

“You
are
good-looking, J.J.,” the journalist on the other side of the room said.

“He'll be even better looking soon,” Ni said with a wink. “Now, Mrs. Lang, we're afraid we have to say good-bye. The rest of our discussion is confidential.”

“But … my interview isn't finished.”

“Yes, it is,” the cyborg's avatar said. “In fact, you'll find that it has already been erased from your net room and cloud.” The pregnant, tan-suited woman looked down frantically, checking to see if this was true. “But don't panic, your two children and one on the way will not starve. We have just deposited some money into your account.” As she said this, the interface for the woman's bank account appeared in one corner of the room and zoomed in on the most recent item, a $10,000 deposit with no description, that might reveal where it came from. The housewife's eyes widened when she saw the number.

“You didn't even need my password?” she asked.

“No, and now comes the more unpleasant part of our good-bye.” The bank interface disappeared, and a security camera feed from an office building interior appeared. This also zoomed in, but on a woman who was working on a net pad in a cubicle.

“That's my wife,” the journalist woman said, even more aghast now. “She's at work.”

“And she'll be able to stay working there,” Ni said in a threatening voice, “as long as you don't talk about what happened in this room. But if you do, especially to the media, the other Mrs. Lang will be out of a job.” As if on cue, the pad on the desk began blinking off and on in bright colors, startling the woman in the cubicle and causing her to move her chair away from it, as if it might explode. Then it went back to normal, after which the woman looked all around for a while and eventually got up to ask other workers about the anomaly. Then the security camera view faded from the room.

“We also know where you live,” Ni continued. “Nine-eighty-six North Washington Street, Pittsville, Wisconsin. We can crash all your net equipment permanently, and probably some other appliances, if you don't honor our agreement.” To illustrate, the cyborg turned off the housewife's net room, and her skin disappeared briefly until it was turned back on. When she reappeared, the tan-suited woman's mouth was hanging open.

“Can't the police arrest you, if you do something like that?” she finally asked.

The three Asian women looked at each other and laughed. After they were done, Ni spoke, and the other two figures were still again.

“Remember what we said, and enjoy the money.” Then the pregnant woman disappeared for good, and Ni turned back to the man.

“You go by Jon, right?” When he said yes, she continued: “Let me tell you about this job, Jon. But we won't be able to talk about it long—you'll have to make a decision very soon.”

He said okay and she proceeded to explain about the upcoming assassination attempts without giving the name of the target. She explained that Jon would be physically altered and be in the line of fire, with a slim chance of surviving but a hefty payday waiting for him if he did. And that the money could be given to family or friends if he didn't. She told him that her team would do their best to protect him because they wanted to keep the double alive as long as possible, so that more of the attempts would run their course and there was more of a chance that the party behind them could be exposed. He told her about the AIMS, because after that display of net mastery he figured that they would find out anyway. She said, “We did find out, thank you,” but to his surprise it wasn't a deal breaker. She explained that it wasn't her decision, but there were no other viable candidates at this time, and reiterated that time was of the essence. She also added that the process of physical alteration he would undergo could possibly cure him of the disease, the science of which she would explain later. She answered a few questions he had, then reiterated again that time was of the essence and asked for a commitment on his part.

He made the commitment, because by now he felt like he had already been carried along too far to turn back. It reminded him of the feeling he had when his old life was slipping away, never to return, like it was spiraling out of his control. But this time he felt a spark of curiosity and interest (the first in a long time), and had a desire to learn where these new forces were taking him.

“Our boss will be here soon,” she said to him. “Along with the man whose place you would be taking. In the meantime let us ask you about this. We can't detect the brainware you said that you have—is it broken?”

“No,” he said. “I had to cancel the account—couldn't pay for it anymore.”

“What company was it? Allware, or another one who used their stuff?”

“Allware.”

“Can you give us your idents so I can activate it? We could crack Allware's ice, but it would take a little while.” He gave her the information, feeling carried along again.

“I thought you wouldn't hire me till I talked to your boss,” he said.

“That's right, but we're trying to save some time.”
Time is of the essence,
he remembered. “There. You're back online. Now you can leave the closet if you want or need to—you can get a cup of coffee or use the bathroom. Or you can turn the closet off and just use your eyes, which would probably be good. A public net room like that is easier to hack than your brain.”

He did as she suggested, and turned the closet off. He was now out of the virtual room and back in the real library cubicle, and all he could see besides its walls was the small standby icon flashing in the top left of his vision. For a few moments he sat there in the library cubicle, staring at the door and thinking about running away while he was temporarily disconnected from the superwoman. But he was almost sure that she could reconnect with him remotely in a split second. Inexplicably he felt more fear of these strange people, and of the unknown world they represented, than he had felt about committing suicide.

“N, R, U, T, N, O, M, E, T, S, Y, S,” he said. The chip was set for vocal commands rather than thought controls, because he had used it too sparingly to master the latter, which were more complicated. The purpose for spelling the words in the command backward was so that features of the cyberware would not be activated by random or unrelated speech or thoughts. For the same purpose, all the commands had to be at least seven characters.

A moment after he issued the command he was back in the same Exit room with the Asian women, which showed that they were in fact connected to and even controlling his cyberware, because this site wasn't his homepage.

“Let's see what you've got in here,” Ni said, and he could almost feel her rooting around in his head, though he knew it was psychosomatic. “You have a lot of interesting material in your cache.” She was referring to the porn, of course, and he was embarrassed despite himself. “And some bad viruses.”