WetWeb (6 page)

“I see dust on the road,” Sam piped up.

“You boys ready for this?”  Eli asked as he clambered into his saddle, pulling on the reins to wheel the horse about.

“Ready,” Gus said.

“Let’s go,” Sam said. 

There was no way for Yang to know if his cousin was speaking or if he was merely parroting the enthusiastic response from the remote player.  Either way, he was committed to the adventure.  Yang felt his legs contract and spur the tall horse to begin cantering down the rise.

“I will make the jump,” Eli cried over the growing sounds of horse hooves.  No one argued, and so it was decided.

The three cowboys began trotting down the rise.  They had all robbed the morning stage before.  They knew what to do.

“Any sign of the Marshal?” Eli asked loudly over the sounds of horse and hoof.

“Have not heard or seen him for days,” Gus replied.

This was good news.  Hopefully the Marshal was “Off” taking a long break back at the home village.  Yang knew the Marshal from when they were boys.  His real name was
Chin.
  Everyone called him Tommy Chin.  But
,
since he was appointed Marshal in the Wild West game
,
he insisted that everyone called him by his new western name which was Marshal Dirk Redburn
,
or just “Marshal.”

Tommy Chin was a bully when they were growing up.  He had a mean streak that continued after they were working at the plastic brush factory.  Tommy Chin brought his natural mean streak into his Wild West Alive persona and this had propelled his popularity with the players.  His mean streak served him well at Wild West Alive.  His natural bullying brought him popularity
and
got him the highly coveted role as Marshal of Squabash.  The Marshal was guaranteed a control player and many viewers every day.   Tommy Chin was making good money.

When Yang and Tommy Chin were working together at the brush factory, Tommy Chin had been appointed to a job with minor responsibilit
ies
as an Assistant Shift Manager.  There was a pretty girl he harassed.  Her name was Angie.

Tommy Chin harassed her at the brush factory and eventually he was reprimanded by the management.  Now Angie was working at Wild West Alive like all of the young brush factory employees.  Angie had the role of a saloon girl named “Sadie
,
” and Marshal Redburn had extracted rev
enge upon her many times over.

Like many of the other young women from the village that worked in Wild West Alive as hosts, they were never “Off”.  They never left the game.   It was never openly discussed among the hosts and certainly not dealt with by RSI Gaming Company.  The female hosts at Squabash felt ashamed of the roles they played in the simulated western town.  While the role of outlaw afforded Yang some admiration in the village, for a girl like Angie, playing the role of Saloon girl had the opposite effect on her reputation.

While the young men returned to their villages and proudly boasted about gun fights and bank robberies, the young women were not proud of the activities the players made them do when the players were in control of their bodies.  Instead of taking time off from the game and facing their friend and families back in the village, they preferred to stay in Squabash and forward their paychecks to their families.  The simulated Wild West world built by RSI Gaming Company had become their only reality.

When RSI recruited them they said it would be like play-acting. 

“Put on a good show,” the recruiter said, “You will make good money and have fun at the same time.”

The bullets were rubber, the hosts were trained to fight like stunt-men in the movies
,
and the romance was supposed to be simulated.  It was possible to make good money, this was true, but for a young girl like Sadie, working as a Saloon girl was not fun. 

Tommy Chin was one host who consistently took it too far.  Once the game went online, it was clear to all the hosts that the players had a keen interest in real violence. 
The more real the better.
  Tommy Chin had become the Marshal by gaining a consistently high popularity with the players.   Tommy’s natural mean streak made him popular among the players.  His abuse of the Saloon girls and the other weaker hosts inside the town of Squabash was legendary among the players.

The horses were running now.  The stagecoach driver had spotted them and whipped the team of horses into a run.  The guard sitting next to the driver started to fire his repeating rif
l
e.  At this range, the rubber bullets were completely ineffective.  Yang knew it, but the player controlling his guard was having a good time firing shot after shot.

Yang could feel his own player start to join in.  The player used Yang’s legs to spur the big horse to a faster pace.  He tossed the cigarillo to the ground and signaled to Sam and Gus to increase their speed.  The outlaws fanned out on either side of the stagecoach.  They drew their six-guns and started shooting.

Yang’s player directed the horse directly behind the stagecoach.  It was safe from bullets
,
but they were being pelted by pebbles tossed up by the stagecoach wheels
and
the dust was unbearable.  Luckily for Yang, the horse would have none of it and they emerged from the dust cloud and rode up alongside the Stagecoach on the driver’s side.
 

Yang felt the player draw his gun and then aim directly at the driver.  Yang felt the tell-tale pressure on his index finger and he fired.  They missed.  Yang knew they would miss.
 
Rubber bullets are lighter than lead and more easily influenced by wind. 

At this speed, the player would need to shoot in front of the driver in order to score a hit.  Yang realized he had an inexperienced player controlling him and this made him nervous about the upcoming jump he would need to make onto the stage coach. 

But that would come later.  Right now, Yang needed
to
help his player shoot at the driver.  Yang consciously re-adjusted the aim of the player up and to the left so he was leading the driver.  Now
,
he waited for the signal from the player to pull the trigger.
 
He did not wait long.  He felt the pressure return to his index finger from the pressure sensor, and his hand reflexively pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
The squib vest that the driver wore under his cowboy outfit exploded with fake blood and gore as the rubber bullets made contact
.  T
he driver expertly leaped off the stagecoach to complete the death act by writhing on the dusty ground for a while.  Eventually, after the noise of the stage coach faded, the driver would discretely get up and make his way back to his starting position. If he hurried, he could get cleaned up and reset his squib vest in time to drive the afternoon stage.  Like all the hosts, the driver could earn additional popularity by fighting off another gang of robbers in the afternoon.
The stagecoach was running wild now.  Sam had shot down the guard as planned and Gus was in his position next to the lead horse to keep the stage coach running straight and steady.   Yang stood up in his stirrups, ready to make the jump.  He focused on the hand-rail next to the driver’s seat.  He could almost reach it.  If he got a good grip on this he would not fall even if the player missed his footing. 

He tried to anticipate the leap from the player.  If he was smart, he would time it to coincide with the rhythm of the horse and the lurching of the stagecoach.  Yang was not sure what to expect from this player.  He waited for the pressure points in his legs to signal the leap from the player.

And then it came, he felt the pressure on his legs and began the leap.  At the same moment he saw the flash of a gun from inside the stage-coach. 

His squib vest exploded across his back, his tall horse lurched away from the noise
,
and Yang watched as his fingertips slipped out of the driver side hand-rail.  As Yang tumbled to the ground he perceived snapshot images from his fall.  His hand stretching out
and grasping at the hand-rail; t
he horse hoofs churning the dusty road.  The blue sky blackened by the top of stagecoach.  The impact with the ground and with a nauseatingly wet crunch, he heard the bone in his right forearm being crushed by the rear wagon wheel.

He knew without looking, his right arm would be mangled.  As Yang started to gather himself to a sitting position, the pain stretched out from his wrist to every nerve in his body until he was shrieking and coughing.  Fake blood from the squib vest mingled with real blood from his arm as he cradled it against his chest.

Soon his cousin
was
at his side.  Sam tried to get him to swallow some water from his canteen, but Yang could not unclench his teeth.  The stagecoach came rolling up and stopped.  Marshal Redburn was driving.  He had been hiding inside the stagecoach
with the passengers
and had purposefully waited till Eli made his jump
before he took
his shot.  Marshal Redburn wore a broad oversized white hat over his interface device.  He wore black leather gloves.  He had two six-guns, one strapped to each leg.  The handles of the Six-guns were painted with a stripe, one red and the other blue.

Redburn sidled over to Yang.

“Well Eli, looks like that’ll be the last time you try robbing the morning stage
,
” He said expansively, playing to his remote audience. 

Yang screamed at him.  Tommy Chin just smiled the smug smile of a bully.

Marshal Redburn turned to climb back up on the stagecoach.  Yang reached across with his left arm and pulled his six
gun
from its holster. 

At near point blank range he discharged all six rounds directly into Tommy Chin’s backside, firing in rapid succession.

Tommy howled as the squibs beneath his trousers exploded exposing his bruised buttocks and splattering fake red blood all over his ruined trousers.  Yang grinned despite the pain and then slipped into blackness.

“Somnambutol: A popular brand name for the synthetic drug lythregulad citrate.  One of a family of drugs developed to induce a strong trance-like state.  A person under the influence of Somnambutol is highly susceptible to suggestion.  These drugs are commonly used by subjects who are allowing their bodies to be manipulated by a remote user over the WetWeb”

-  WetWiki

“You like the cowboy stories?” Anand asked.

It was the beginning of the second day of interviews.  Franklin had settled into his steel chair after a long skim ride down from Sacramento to Pleasanton Minimum Security Prison.  The Cowboy story that Anand was relating
would
make a good retro-pulp feature.  It was good stuff.  Franklin recognized the value.

“The Cowboy stories are great,” Franklin replied
,
“When you left off, some of the Cowboys were getting hurt.”

“Quite right,” Anand said
:

There is more to tell. But I need to tell you what was going on in the outside world at the same time.

The Wild West Alive game was a huge success.  RSI was making great profits; there was nothing else like it.  The gaming audience had never seen such realistic combat.  We quickly grew with no competition.  We dominated the game market as the only provider of real life experiences.  Al McKnight was anxious to expand the franchise. 

He was already scouting locations in nearby Chinese factory towns where he wanted to build new games and capitalize on a successful model.  He talked about a Roman town complete with
a
Coliseum.   Christopher Mark, on the other hand, was interested in advancing the technology. 

Chris Mark and I would discuss miniaturization and improvement of the feedback and pressure sensors.  We continually made improvement
s
to our original model, but we both knew we were only making small changes.  In truth, we realized we had gone as far as we could go with this technology system.  Any improvements on our Interface device would be variations on the original design.  To take the next step, we needed to integrate the device directly into the host’s nervous system.  We needed a neurosurgeon who was brilliant and fearless and who was ready to push the science.  Chris Mark found her.  Her name was Singh. 
Dr. Sadhna Singh to be
exact
.

Anand’s gesticulating hands calmed.  He spoke to Franklin directly
;
matter
-
of
-
factly.  His manner changed perceptibly
and
the excitement was slowing.  There was real emotion here.  Franklin shifted uncomfortably in his steel chair and turned the page.

“Did you marry her?”  Franklin asked

“No, no, no,” Anand drifted off, ruminating, searching for a place to start
:

You see,
w
e were both already married when we met.  In our culture marriage is a very formal act.  Most marriages are arranged by the parents and family.  So it was for me.  So it was for Sadhna
,
I guess. But we never spoke of it.

We were both working all the time.  Both of us escaping from love-less relationships at home.  Our lives were filled with work
-
just work.  For me it was networks, for Sadhna it was neurology.  Our passion was expressed through work.

Listening to Anand talk about marriage brought an image of Dolly to Franklin’s mind.  He could see her standing in their kitchen
;
happy
and
smiling.  It was an image that troubled him.  While Anand talked, his mind drifted. 

Last night he had gotten home quite late. 
Later than he expected.
  Anand’s stories about Chinese Cowboy’s had captivated his imagination.  The stories were long and then on the skim ride home Franklin had spent time collating his notes into a narrative
.  This narrative
would
eventually would
become the feature that he had promised to deliver to Titus Briggs.  Was it
content
? 
Maybe not.
  Franklin decided there was too much sex and violence in and around Squabash for this story to be a serious content feature.  But
,
if it was pulp, then it was good pulp; and historical.

When Franklin opened the door of the skim-taxi
, and
he was surprised to see it was quite dark outside.  The front of his home was quiet.  The tall trees that lined each side of the street stood like silent sentinels
;
waiting, watching.  Around their branches an occasional star would glimmer.  There was no moon.  The streetlight was out.

The skim-taxi moved off soundlessly and as he watched the tail lights recede he realized he had forgotten something.  What was it?  What had Dolly said to him when he saw her this morning?

Realization began in his stomach with a sour ache and then spread up his esophagus and into his waking mind.  Dolly’s admonition ringing like a bell
:

“Don’t forget we are having the Falsos over to dinner.  Blanco needs to be here to cook and serve.”

He had forgotten.  Looking guiltily at the dark house, all was quiet.  If Dolly was home, then she was asleep or Synapped into a feature.  If the Falsos had come over for dinner, they were gone now.  Franklin lingered on the steps trying to anticipate the inevitable confrontation with Dolly.  At some point, she must have realized he was not coming home and with no Warmbot servant she cancelled the dinner
-
possible.

It was also possible that she stayed upstairs most of the day, bathing, primping
,
and getting ready for guests.  Then when the time came
(
maybe the doorbell was already ringing
)
she came downstairs to find no dinner and no Blanco to serve. 

Only the cold sandwich where he had left it on the kitchen
counter
. “Franklin Tempo Chicken Sandwich – One for Lunch.”  This scenario seemed more plausible.  

He tried to think how Dolly would react in this situation. 
The door buzzer ringing; t
he Falsos standing just outside
;
the house empty.

Something moved. 

Franklin was distracted from his attempts to mentally reconstruct the dinner party.  There was some slight motion there in the dark, up the street
.  There was
something in the shadow, unseen and trying to remain unseen.  Franklin held his breathe.  He stared intently into the blackness, willing his pupils to dilate
and
searching for the outline of a dark shape against a dark backdrop.  There was something there beside
s
the thick trunk of an Oak
.  It was
a shape
,
standing
;
standing and not moving.

Was it part of the tree? Was his mind playing tricks on him?  Why would someone stand on his street, quietly, silently, blending into the darkness, watching and waiting?

Franklin was afraid.  There was something there.  Something had moved and now it was still. 
Something lurking in the darkness.
 
A Chuppacabra waiting for its chance.
  He quietly backed up to his door. 
Gingerly stepping up the short steps to the stoop.
  Across the street among the blackness of trees there was no motion.  His keys jingled noisily as he fumbled with the lock.  Then it clicked open loudly.  He pushed inside and quickly shut the door behind him.  The door closed loudly. 
Much too loudly for this time of night.
  Franklin closed the lock, the bolt and the chain.  Then he exhaled.

“Franklin?”
Dolly’s voice ringing down from upstairs.

A click and light from above began casting shadows down the stairs.

“Franklin
are
you home?”  Dolly sounded good, not angry or upset.  Maybe even a little concerned.

“Sorry to wake you,” Franklin said up to the light on the stairs. 

He could hear Dolly getting up.  Franklin stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light.  The kitchen was clean, spotless in fact.  If dinner had been cooked and consumed by Dolly and the Falsos there was no sign of it now.

“Would you like some dinner now?” Dolly asked coming down the stairs.

“It was wonderful,” she said, “The Falsos were so impressed.  It was all so fabulous, the food, everything
.  It was
such a nice surprise.”

Dolly chattered on.  Franklin had no idea what she was talking about.  Then Dolly, smiling, stepped into the light and following a half step behind was a petite Warmbot with pink skin and a yellow grill.

“Isn’t she just adorable?” Dolly asked
,
  “
So pink and perky.”

Franklin was flabbergasted. 

“Molly?” he said.

*******

The selection of Synapse hosts on call at the courthouse was limited.  It was the next morning, and Franklin decided he needed to conduct some independent research on the details of his trial before his next meeting with Anand Ramasubramanian.  Franklin wanted to know more about the murder of Christopher Mark, so he had stepped into his study removed his clothes and squeezed into his Synapse Suit.  He was looking for a host who serviced the courtroom in Los Angeles where Anand was tried and convicted.  These days everyone was connected in some way to the WetWeb. 

Most people found it convenient or stimulating to allow their bodies to be remotely manipulated.  Franklin was a little odd in that he had never had the Synaptic Derivation device implanted into his neck.  Franklin often utilized a Synapse Suit to control someone else remotely, but he could not allow someone else to take control of his body remotely.  When the idea of Synaptic Derivation was introduced it quickly grew into a trend and then a fad.  Franklin was in college.  Synaptic implant devices became as common as tattoos or body piercing.  Franklin, however, never felt comfortable with his peers.  He had no real close friends in school.  As a result, he stood apart from the
rest of
society.  Watching the others share intimacies via Synaptic Derivation, but too uncomfortable in his own skin to ever consider that someone else might want to take control of his awkward lumpish frame.

People who are attractive easily
found
lucrative assignments as Synapse hosts.  They simply
took
a dose of Somnambutol and rent
ed
out their smooth bodies for the night
.  They would
wak
e
up with a mild hang-over and a nice payment in their WetWeb account. With the general acceptance of Synaptic Derivation and its growing popularity, many people allowed remote manipulation of their bodies to escape from what would otherwise be tedious jobs.  By paying a small fee a person with an implant device
could
allow a remote user to manipulate their body
,
and thereby take a short virtual vacation from an otherwise boring occupation.  Synapse hosts willing to be manipulated by remote
users
,
that
need
ed
a body to look up legal records at the local courthouse
,
were generally of a type that could not get other assignments
.  They
also had no money to pay someone else to manage their boring jobs.  Franklin knew the sort of host he would get before he started searching.

Franklin manipulated the visual interface display in his Synapse Suit to scroll through the potential candidates.  Their name, experience and cost per hour were all listed at the top of their profile along with a small photo of the host.  Reading into the detail, Franklin would learn what jobs they were willing to do while hosting
,
and read recommendations from previous clients.  He could also see the model of
a
Synaptic interface device that had been implanted into their brain stem.

Franklin always preferred petite female hosts.  He found them much easier to maneuver and manipulate remotely.  Also, he enjoyed the idea of occupying their lithe bodies.  It was a small and secret pleasure; a small indulgence in a world where the WetWeb was commonly used for the most prurient of purposes.  The
WetWeb
and Synaptic derivation had created a second sexual revolution.  It enabled the rise of the voyeurs.  Using the WetWeb, fantasy and reality intermingled; and there was an abundance of Synapse hosts whose profiles indicated that they were available for any sexual encounter that the remote user might desire.  The host usually had no memory of their escapades
,
sexual or not.  Under the influence of hypnotic inducement drugs they would simply wake up the next morning and count the pay-off in their accounts. 

Franklin finished the list of available courtroom hosts without seeing anyone who was of any interest to him, so he selected a host at random.  The name second from last on the list was Reginald White.  He was a tall dark skinned man with boney features and a thick shock of curly black hair.  Franklin clicked on the Synaptic Interface access controls and prepared his mind to take control of this man’s body.