WetWeb (15 page)

The bar was dimly lit, but still it felt cheerful inside.  Franklin could see a central bar with stools, some tables in the center
,
and booths along the wall.  Each table and booth had a single small candle flickering from inside a colored glass container.  There were only a few patrons. 

The woman whom he had seen enter a few moments earlier was settling into a booth along the back.  She was sitting alone.  Franklin also noticed that an elderly couple was occupying a table.  Sitting at the bar was a gentleman with white hair.  Behind the bar was a human bartender.  He smiled welcomingly.  There were no Synapse hosts getting off of work in this bar, and clearly there were no Warmbots working here.  Franklin felt he had come to the right place.

As Franklin settled onto a bar stool
.
  T
he Bartender introduced himself and the other fellow who was sitting at the bar
.

“My name is Chester, and this here is Thomas,” Chester said.

“Hello, my name is Franklin,” Franklin
replied
, and then they shook hands all around.  The atmosphere was friendly and convivial.  Franklin felt comfortable here.

“What would you like?” Chester asked.

Franklin was not accustomed to ordering drinks at a bar.  He asked for a Vodka Martini
,
because this is a drink that he remembered tasting in pulp features
,
where he pretended he was a suave spy on some oblique mission
.  A mission
which
inevitably ended with sex and violence. 

Chester prepared and poured the drink using great flourish and showmanship.  Chester had previously chilled the glass, and before he poured the alcohol from the shaker, he swirled a dash of vermouth around the interior of the glass.  Then
,
filling the shaker with the vodka and ice
, he
sh
ook it
well
. 
Chester
then
strained the cocktail into the chilled glass.  The olive that Chester used as a garnish was green and plump
,
and had a bit of garlic in the center.

Franklin sipped at his drink
,
and then grinned with enjoyment.  The drink was well made. 

Chester smiled broadly.  He clearly enjoyed simple appreciation from his customers.

“What a delight,” Franklin thought
,
  “
To be served by a human behind the bar instead of a Warmbot. This is a luxury that I know the elite
class enjoy
.  But here, in this forgotten bar off the highway
,
in a forgotten part of town, the owner, perhaps Chester himself, cannot afford a Warmbot servant.”

“It’s ironic,” Franklin mused to himself
,“
Sometimes the very rich and the very poor share things in common.”  

And so
,
it was with the WebWeb.  Neither the rich
,
nor the poor would Synap in to the WetWeb to manipulate remote hosts.  Both the rich and the poor were served by human servants
,
and not Warmbots, but for very different reasons.  And for the same very different reasons, the rich and the poor never had a Synaptic interface device implanted into their Brain stems.  The rich and powerful would not let their bodies be controlled remotely.  There were risks to their powerful empires and personal fortunes.  The poor, at the opposite end of the spectrum, could simply not afford to pay for the implant procedure. 

Franklin liked this idea.  The more he turned it over in his head.  The more he thought about it, the more he decided that he had struck upon a simple truth here
.  It was a truth
central to the relationship between the social classes and
was
central to the history of the WetWeb.  He decided to write it down.

Franklin finished his drink and then ordered another.  While Chester was mixing and pouring, Franklin reached into his bag and retrieved his notebook.  He opened it on the bar and flipped to the last page.  He read his notes where he had described Anand’s meeting with Christopher Mark and Al McKnight
.   He also wrote
where Anand had described the left handed handshake that sealed his involvement with them
-
the left handed handshake which they used to seal their complicity in the murders at Wild West Alive.

“After that, we were all in it together
,
”  Franklin
had written, quoting Anand.

Reading this now, Franklin remembered Anand’s words when they parted
,“
You are not the author; you are ‘in’ the story.  You are a character, and the final chapter is not yet written.”

Chester served the fresh martini. Franklin took a long drink.  The warmth from the alcohol filled his wide frame.  He felt confident.  He felt independent.  Confident because he was outside his routine and free from Anand’s presumptuous classification of him as a bit player in Anand’s biography.

“We will see who the author is,” Franklin said to himself.

Franklin turned the page to start fresh.  At the top of a fresh page of the notebook and in large print he wrote,
“Chapter 10.”

“The very rich and the very poor do not suffer the company of Warmbots, nor do
they
Synap into experiential features.  Those with great power and those with no power are equally insulated from the WetWeb.”

-Franklin Tempo

As Franklin began writing in his notebook, he attracted the attention of the woman who had stepped into the Chimneysweep ahead of him.  She casually stood and approached Franklin at the bar. 

“Are you a writer?” She asked.

Franklin was puzzled. He
had
never considered himself a writer before.  He created pulp features for the WetWeb, but this is not what she meant.  Instead of answering, he invited her to sit
with him
.  She settled onto a bar stool in between Franklin and Thomas.  Chester and Thomas clearly recognized her.  They were all regulars here.  Franklin was the newcomer.

“May I buy you a drink?”  Franklin asked.

“My name is Claudia,” She said, introducing herself.

Franklin introduced himself and they sat quietly as Chester prepared a cocktail for her.  Chester knew what to make for her without needing to ask.  The drink was more complex than the simple martini that Franklin had ordered.  Franklin was surprised when Chester produced a fresh egg and cracked it.  Chester carefully used the two halves of the eggshell to separate the
egg
white from the golden yolk.  The
egg
white
was added to the drink and the yolk was discarded. The drink was mixed vigorously together and then Chester poured the concoction into a chilled martini glass
.  He
then garnished it with a red cherry.  The drink, when it was finished, was pink.

Claudia sipped at the cocktail and then smiled approvingly to Chester.  Chester smiled back and then he moved down the bar to clear and clean the glassware.

“Are you writing a book?” Claudia asked, returning to the theme of her original interrogatory.

“I am not sure,” Franklin responded at last
,
“It did not start that way, but now I am not so sure.”

She sipped at her pink drink delicately.

“Are you interested in old style books?” Franklin asked.

“Oh my yes
,
” she replied
,
“We have a book circle that meets here.  We pass our books around to each other and read anything we can find.  It is rare to see anything new these days. We read the books that we own in our personal libraries, mostly paper-backs and novels handed down from our parents and grand-parents, or found in second hand stores.”

Franklin had never considered the work he did for the WetWeb in this light.  Experiential features had replaced old style books and movies almost over-night.  He had accepted
,
along with most
people
,
that
the decline of books and the rise of experiential features on the WetWeb was natural evolution of fiction and literature, but now he was beginning to realize that something had been lost along the way.  His work, his pulp features, did not evoke a loyal following of readers or “experiencers
.
”  In fact, based on his recent sales, he hardly
had
anyone experiencing his features at all.  Everything
was
the same.  Franklin’s features
were
undifferentiated from another pulp feature on the same topic.  The pulp cranked out by Brandon and Stern is homogenized.  Work derived from other work.  Writing remembered from other writing. 

She sipped again,
then
asked,
“What is your book about?”

Franklin considered and then answered,
“It is the history of the WetWeb.  I am interviewing a man who knew and worked with Al McKnight.  He was there in the early days, when the WetWeb was first conceived and built.”

Claudia’s open and friendly expression contracted into sadness.  She took a long drink to cover her emotional response.

“I am sorry,” Franklin said, “I have upset you.”

He looked at her, and seeing her now, sad but composed, he thought she looked beautiful and vulnerable.  She was not young.  Probably five years older than Franklin, maybe more.   Her eyes were not large and her lips were not full.  Her skin was marked by tiny scars that she had attempted to smooth out by spreading thick make-up across her cheeks.  Her hair was dark and frizzy at the ends.  Now with sadness masking her emotions the makeup on her cheeks become smeared with dark as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Sitting there, eyes wet with emotion from some untold tragedy, Franklin felt tenderness towards her.  He wanted to stroke her neck.  He wanted to hold her hand.  He wanted to comfort her and seduce her.

She took another sip from the
p
ink cocktail and pulled herself together. 

Refocusing her attention, she said, “It is not your fault, your book has an interesting theme; an important theme.  Would you come to our
b
ook circle and read some passages?  I know the group would be eager to hear.”

Franklin thought about the chapters that he had written.  Nothing seemed worthy of this kind of attention.  He imagined standing before the group and reading aloud about murder in the streets at Wild West Alive.  It all seemed obscure and contrived.  It seemed like the worst kind of writing
, it was
pulp for pulps sake. Thinking back on what he had written so far, nothing seemed worthy of serious consideration.

“I don’t want to further upset you
,
” Franklin said.

She waived Franklin’s response away with a flutter of her hand, as if the words were hanging in the air between them
,
like smoke.

“Don’t worry about me,” She said, “I am overly emotional.  The book club would love to hear an excerpt from your work. I would love to hear it too.  Please say you will come.”

As she spoke she casually placed the tips of her fingers on the back of Franklin’s hand; just lightly
.  S
he was touching him
just
above his wrist.

“Ok,” Franklin confirmed, “I would be happy to read a passage to your book group.”

She smiled. Franklin felt a bond forming between them.

“Thank you
,
” She said, “We will all be most excited to hear you read from your interesting new work. Can you meet us here, tomorrow night?”

The immediacy of the appointment made him nervous.    Franklin’s mind buzzed with his list of appointments for tomorrow.  He needed to go to Savant Organic Robotics dealership and resolve the Molly mystery.  He was also planning on Synapping into a host and meeting with Titus at Brandon and Stern in San Francisco
,
to discuss the progress on the feature
,
and especially what he had learned about Wild West Alive.  He did not have time to prepare a piece to read before this book circle.  But the vodka martini gave him courage, and the nearness of Claudia gave him incentive.

“What time tomorrow?” he asked.

Claudia smiled.

They finalized arrangements and then spent a quiet hour sipping drinks and discussing small things.  Claudia told him of the books she read and she told him about the drink Chester mixed for her.  She called it
a
“
Pink Lady.
”
  Franklin talked about his work and the interviews with Anand.  He tried to sound impressive without overtly bragging.  He never explained why he was here in this bar.  He was careful not to mention Dolly or Molly.  There were some things better left unsaid.  They laughed when Chester told silly jokes and puns.

Eventually
,
Chester announced last call.  Franklin finished his martini and stood
.  H
e was not used to drinking cocktails late at night and when he stood he found that he was unsteady on his feet.  He held onto the side of the bar to steady
himself
and get his bearings.  When he was ready, he said goodnight to Chester and Thomas
,
and then
he
escorted Claudia to the door.  The combination of warmth from alcohol and rush from adventure made Franklin amorous.  When the
y
stepped outside the cold night air sobered them a little and cooled their warm faces.  Franklin looked for an opportunity to put his arm around her shoulder, but then thought better of it.   He escorted her home which led him another six blocks away from his own house. 

As they approached her front door, Claudia said in a low voice, “I want to give you something
.
”

Franklin felt uncomfortable and remained silent.

Claudia said, “Wait here a moment.”

She unlocked the door and pushed inside.  The house was small, but clean and well kept.  The warm light from the porch illuminated a halo of light that distinguished this house from the others on the street.  Franklin waited on the stoop and while he waited he anxiously scanned up and down the dark street
.  As he stared
into the dark areas,
he
half expecting
to see a hidden watcher following them.  But
,
the street was quiet and very empty.  Franklin was unsure of the time, but it was late
- 
very
late.

Claudia emerged from behind the door and she was carrying a small bundle of paper
, which was
loosely held together with a ribbon.  She pushed this into Franklins hand
, and
without saying another word
, s
he leaned close and touched her cheek to his. 
There was a
brief
moment of warmth, and then she disappeared back into
her
quiet house.

After she was gone, Franklin wondered if she had left any of her thick makeup on his cheek or collar.  He rubbed his cheek with his hand and tried to inspect the results. 

In the thin moonlight
,
he could not see anything on his hand.  He lifted the bundle of papers up to the moonlight
, and h
e could see that they were a stack of letters.  The addresses on the envelopes were written by hand, but in the dim light he could not make out the handwriting.  They seemed to be addressed to Claudia.  He bundled them together with his inter
view notebook in the deep pocket
of his overcoat
,
and started on the long walk home. 

It was late.  The streets were deserted of people and skimmers.  The moon
had
dropp
ed
behind the cityscape and the streets were growing darker.   He was walking through a part of Sacramento that was in decline.  No skimmer taxi would happen by
, s
o, he walked.

As he re-traced his steps
,
his thoughts buoyed him along. 
A successful adventure and an unexpected chapter
.
  H
e had made a new and interesting friend
, and h
e was elated.  But
,
as he walked, the cold and dark crowded about him.  He began to feel as if he was exploring a world that was depopulated of humans.  This neighborhood was poor, yes, but was it vacant?  Many of the houses that he passed looked as if they were standing empty.  Where were the people? Long grass grew in the yards.  In some cases, the windows were boarded up.  Claudia’s small house with its clean porch and warm lights glowed like an oasis in a neighborhood that seemed devoid of life.  No lights in the windows, no skimmers in the driveways.  More than once
,
during his long walk back
,
he felt he had made a wrong turn
.  He
had
wished
he paid more attention to the street names and landmarks when he was walking with Claudia.  The uniformity of the streets and houses bothered him.  It was more than architectural
similarities
,
it was also the uniformity of decay.  How is it possible that an entire neighborhood would vacate their houses all at the same time? 

He continued his dark walk and his dark musings.  He passed a tall house with a picket fence and felt sure he had already passed by this way before.  He looked into the dark windows, wondering where he was and wondering what had happened to the people that lived here. He felt lost, but worse than that, he felt alone.

He quickened his pace and followed his instincts
.  He would g
enerally mov
e
in the direction that he hoped would lead to his own
,
less empty
,
neighborhood.   Presently
,
he found himself back at the Chimneysweep bar, now closed and quiet.  He was glad to
have
reach
ed
this milestone.  His feet ached
,
and he was sure he
had
develop
ed
blisters on his soft heels and toes.
 
He made his way past the coffee house
,
which was also closed.  He crossed back under the quiet highway
,
and entered into his own
,
more familiar neighborhood.
 
When he got to his street, he stepped quickly.  His senses keenly attuned to any movement or motion in the dark.  Nothing was seen or heard.  He looked up and down the street hoping for the gleam of the cat’s eyes that he had seen previously.  He dreaded the thought that he might detect a dark shape blending into the trees.  Eventually
,
he made his way to his own door
, which h
e opened
quietly
,
and slipped inside.