The Speculative Short Stories of Barbara Paul, page 10
“Oh, I daresay you are right, Watson. But there should have been some solution other than the one at which Lombard ultimately arrived.”
“Perhaps. But Lombard is only half the story—you have prevented a death this day. Surely that is more rewarding than unmasking a killer! This has to be one of your most successful cases, unquestionably.”
“As you no doubt will claim in your scribblings.” He stretched out a long arm and picked up his largest pipe.
My heart sank. Whenever Holmes reached for that particular pipe, it invariably meant he would spend hour after hour smoking and thinking. Or smoking and fretting. Mrs. Hudson was preparing a Christmas goose, but it would be several hours before it was ready. More than anything I wanted to spend those hours sleeping, but I did not relish the thought of coming back to a sitting room so thick with tobacco fumes I would be unable to taste the goose.
There was only one thing to be done.
“Come, Holmes—this self-blame is not like you. You mustn’t sit there and brood. Let us go take a stroll in Regent’s Park. You need to be out and about.”
“I’ve been out and about. I just got back.”
“From visiting an unhappy man. But today is Christmas. A time for rejoicing!”
“I don’t want to rejoice.”
“Of course you do. A brisk walk in Regent’s Park will do you worlds of good. Besides, I have a desire to hear some real carolers, ones who sing for the joy of the season rather than for some nefarious purpose. Come, Holmes, let us be off!”
“Oh, very well, since you’re so set on it. Although I fail to see why we cannot sit here quietly until Mrs. Hudson brings us that plump goose she is cooking.”
“Because I worry you may be growing stale. Sit quietly, indeed!” He stared at me in disbelief.
For once, I had the last word.
FATAL ERROR 1000
Barbara Paul
Published in Future Net anthology, 1996
Barbara Paul has a Ph.D in Theater History and Criticism and taught at the University of Pittsburgh until the late ’70s when she became a full-time writer. She has written five science fiction novels and sixteen mysteries, six of which are in the Marian Larch series. A new Marian Larch novel will be out in 1997, titled Full Frontal Murder.
Monstrousness, Caro thought, but kept her persona’s visage impassive. And no law to say killing a dead person was illegal. This one should keep the legislators busy for a while.
Quicksilver was openly laughing at the two men from CyberPatrol watching him. They couldn't touch him, and they all knew it. Quick was so pleased with himself that Caro wanted to hit him. The truly frightening part was that he honestly saw nothing wrong with crashing a ghostsystem. Hey, he was already dead, right?" Quick had said.
He had never looked more attractive. Quick was wearing his blue skin and white hair today—not the starkly contrasting electric blue and silver affected by the worshipers of comic book heroes, but more subtle shades, each reflecting the other. No one had ever met Quicksilver offline. The speculation was that he was fat and ugly, only the real dogs spent that much effort on their personas.
They d gathered at a sidewalk café on the Rue d’Antibe in Paris to celebrate, a number of Quick’s friends and fellow runners... although Caro thought they should be mourning instead. She hadn’t known the revenant, had never heard of him until Quicksilver had started complaining. Suddenly a stranger named Scrimshaw had been all Quick could talk about. Scrimshaw was making jokes about Quicksilver in closed domains and private sectors such as ArenaNet, ridiculing him, undermining his rep as a site architect. He’d cost Quick a couple of commissions.
The waiter who brought them their drinks lost resolution for a moment but then firmed up. His momentary waver did not go unnoticed, though. “Time to find a new caff,” Quick announced. “Maintenance is getting sloppy here.”
Caro spoke up quickly. “I don’t want to find a new café. I like it here.”
“Didn’t you see the waiter?”
“Yes, I saw the waiter. But so what? You look for cracks in the architecture, Quick. This is a good site and I’m not going to abandon it because you found a fault to stick your finger in.”
A silence descended. The two CyberPatrolmen were seated at the next table, drinking in every word. “Well,” said Quicksilver, raising an eyebrow, “stay here as long as you like. But I won’t be back.”
The blond-all-over woman sitting next to him cleared her throat. “I’m with Caro. Not many people know about this place yet. It’d be a shame to give it up.”
Caro looked at her in surprise. The woman called herself AngelFace, which was two strikes against her right there as far as Caro was concerned. This was the first time she’d ever heard Angel disagree with Quick.
He finished his Pernod—a drink that was good for you on the Net—and put down his empty glass. “This isn’t really about the café, is it?”
The two women exchanged a look. Caro said quietly, “You shouldn’t have crashed Scrimshaw, Quick.”
“Oh, you’ve decided that, have you? What was I supposed to do—just sit back and watch while he ruined me?”
“You should have looked for another way to stop him.”
“I did look for another way!”
“You should have looked harder. You had no right to delete a postlife.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Quicksilver was thoroughly annoyed. “You’re talking as if I wiped him right out of existence! They're reconstructing him from the memory banks right now!”
“Reconstructing him as he was at the time of his real death. Revenants can’t deposit memory. He'll have no knowledge of what's happened virtually since then.”
“He'll catch up fast enough. And someone's sure to tell him I crashed his system. Maybe this time he won't be so quick to flame me in sectors where I have no access.”
“Yes, this time he'll be more careful. All you’ve done is make him wary.”
Abruptly Quicksilver stood up. "I've had enough of this shit. I'm going to Rio—perpetual carnival! Anyone coming with me?”
Everyone at the table except Caro and AngelFace got up. One by one they winked out. The CyberPatrol followed.
“I don't know why the Patrol keeps following him,” Angel grumbled. “They can’t do anything.”
Caro shrugged. “Maybe they just want to make sure he doesn't do it again.” She looked at the other woman. “You and Quick having problems?”
“No, I just think he was wrong to wipe Scrimshaw.” Angel sighed. “My father is a revenant. I remember how hard it was for him and Mom to adjust. Now she spends all her time at his site—I think she sees more of Dad now than when he was alive. But somebody comes along and crashes Dad's program, they’d have to go through all that again. It'd be even harder on Mom the second time. Why the hell don't they find a way for revenants to make memory deposits?”
“I hear they’re alpha-testing a program right now.”
“Huh, I’ve been hearing that for over a year, but nobody knows anything about it. Speaking of making deposits in the memory bank, I’ve got to go in and make one.”
Caro wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Go in... you mean in person?”
“Yeah. Ain't that a hoot?”
“I’ve never heard of anyone having to make a memory deposit in person. Your automatics break down or what?”
“Programs check out okay. I think I have a hardware problem. But that’ll be checked out at this NetCenter I’m supposed to go to.”
“Lord. I wouldn’t even know where to go.”
“CyberSafety sent me a local address—I have to go in tomorrow morning.”
“Well, gee, sympathies, Angel. How much time are you missing?”
“Only three days. But if I get hit by a truck on the way to the Center tomorrow, I'll have no memory of anything that happened in the last three days when I start my postlife.”
Caro shuddered. “Be careful crossing the street.” At that moment, her peripheral vision picked up the sight of a pulsing red dot. “Oh, damn... Safety warning. Didn’t realize I’d been online that long. Look, Angel. I’d like very much to hear what it's like, making a memory deposit in person. I never even heard of it before. Would you meet me afterward?”
“Sure. I should be through by noon, but let's make it one o’clock Standard just to be on the safe side. Where?”
“You name it.”
Angel thought a moment. “The Squared Circle in New York. You know it?”
“Yep, I’ve been there.”
“You may not recognize me. I’m getting tired of being little and blond and cute.”
Caro laughed. “Then you find me—I'll be the same.” The red warning dot had increased in size and was pulsing more rapidly. “Shoot—I’ve really got to log off now. See you at one tomorrow.”
When she unplugged, Caro had to wait a moment for the CyberSafety message to appear on the two-dimensional screen: Eat and exercise.
Dern. She was hoping it would say Work or Sleep. Virtual victuals were so tasty that she always gorged and had no appetite for realtime grub.
And exercising? Bleaagh.
Caro didn’t really care for The Squared Circle, but she hadn’t wanted to say so when Angel chose it. The designer had just assembled an assortment of public domain templates; there was nothing individual or original about it. But the place was huge and it had a superior Netwide search engine. That alone made it a popular site.
Caro ran a locate for AngelFace and got a Not found. Maybe Angel had changed her name as well as her appearance. Or her in-person memory deposit was taking longer than she thought.
While she waited, Caro amused herself by running searches on others. Quicksilver had abandoned Rio for a site called Ephesus that she didn’t know, and most of his pursuivants were there with him. Curious to know if the recently-wiped revenant was back yet, she searched on Scrimshaw. Yep, there he was, at an under-construction site bearing his name. Starting over.
Caro grew more irritated as the time passed; nobody liked being stood up. When an hour had gone by, she decided she might as well jump to Scrimshaw’s site. It was time she met this man.
The minute she got there, she regretted her impulse. Scrimshaw was still in his zombie stage, that period of stunned disbelief all new revenants passed through... well, most of them passed through it. In spite of his gaunt expression. Scrimshaw was a nice-looking man—thick black curly hair, a lean physique. That was his real appearance, too; he wouldn’t start thinking of constructing a persona until he’d left zombiehood behind. At the moment he was going through the motions of building his site, the near-mechanical groundwork giving him something to focus on. “Not open yet,” he said when he spotted Caro.
“I know,” she said. “Have you had many visitors yet?”
"What?”
“Visitors. Here.”
“You’re the first.”
“Then I’ll be easy to find once you’re ready to talk.” He was in no condition to hear what had happened to him; not yet. “The first name on your site visitors list. Will you get in touch?”
“Yes.” Vaguely.
“Will you remember? It’s important, Scrimshaw.”
With an effort, he concentrated on what she was saying. “Do I know you?”
“No. My name’s Caro... Caro@mic.com is the full address. It’ll be on your visitors list.”
“What’s mic.com?”
“Margules Investment Counseling. And it’s time I was getting to work. Will you do a locate or send me mail? Later?”
Scrimshaw abandoned his site-building and gave her his full attention. “You came here to tell me something, didn’t you? I apologize for being so slow-witted. I... I’m still new at this revenant business.”
She changed her mind about not telling him; she had a feeling this man needed to know as much as possible as soon as possible. “Well, no... you’re not. New at it. I’m sorry to tell you, Scrimshaw, but this is your second time.”
He turned pale from the shock; disbelief was written all over him. “My second time? But... no, it can’t be! The last thing I saw was an out-of-control bus heading straight toward me.”
Caro sighed. “No, the last thing you saw must have been a message reading Fatal Error 1000. Right before your system crashed. And it gets worse. You were crashed deliberately.”
It took him a while to recover from this second blow. When he did, he spoke only one word. “Who?”
“Quicksilver.”
He looked puzzled. “The site architect? I don’t know him. I don’t even know anything about him. Why did he crash me?”
“Because you were badmouthing him. He said you were costing him business.”
That puzzled him even more. “This makes no sense. You see, er, Caro—I’m a private detective. Or was... I guess I still am. But part of my business is keeping my mouth shut. If I did find out something negative about Quicksilver, I’d report it to my client or testify in CyberCourt, but I wouldn’t go blabbing it all over the Net.”
“Well, not all over. Just in private sectors like ArenaNet.”
“Ah. And do you have access to ArenaNet?”
Caro saw what he was getting at. “No, I don’t. You mean I have only Quick’s word for it. I hadn’t thought of that.” She checked the time. “Look, I really do have to get to work. I hate to leave you right after dumping all this on you—”
“No, that’s all right. I need to do some thinking.” He started away but then turned back. “Caro— thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I guess,” she said just before she winked out.
Margules Investment Counseling kept Caro occupied full-time for the next week. She checked her mail every day, but no word from Scrimshaw. Then the rush of business eased down to its normal level, and Caro had some free time.
She wasn't going to bother Scrimshaw; he had enough on his mind and he had her address if he wanted to contact her. Instead, she ran a locate on AngelFace. That woman owed her an explanation.
Caro found her with Quicksilver and his coterie, sunning themselves on the beach of one of the Canary Islands. Caro dressed her persona in swim gear and joined them. No one jumped up and down with joy. And no sign of the CyberPatrol; they were probably tracking Quicksilver through a shadow program now, but Caro, for one, was glad to be rid of their intimidating visible presence.
“Scrimshaw’s back,” Quick greeted her. “Happy now?”
Caro murmured something and went over to stretch out on her stomach alongside AngelFace. The heat felt good on her back, and she never had to worry about skin cancer from this sun. The other woman didn’t acknowledge her presence. “So, Angel,” Caro said, “why’d you stand me up last week?”
Angel looked at her in astonishment. “Why, did we have a date?”
Someone said, “Maybe Caro has Angel confused with Dash Riprock.” A couple of the men snickered.
“We were to meet at The Squared Circle,” Caro said. “Right after you went in to make your memory deposit.”
“Right after I went in to make a memory deposit? What on earth are you talking about?”
More snickers.
The two women stared at each other uncomprehendingly. Caro tried again. “You told me your memory automatics hadn't recorded for three days. You had to go into a NetCenter to get it taken care of.”
“Oh, those three days. Yeah, they told me about that. Well, jeez, Caro—how do you expect me to know what happened during those three days?”
Quicksilver heehawed. “Got it now, Caro?" The others were all laughing at her.
Then she did get it. Caro sat up and stared at the woman beside her in horror. “Angel—you're a revenant?”
Angel sat up, too. “You didn’t know?”
“I haven’t been online in a week, except for work. Oh Angel, I’m so sorry!”
Angel took off her sunglasses and looked at her closely. “Thanks," she said quietly.
Caro whirled on Quicksilver. “What’s the matter with you? Angel died—and you treat it as a joke? Just to needle me?”
“Oh, fer gawd’s sake, Caro... lighten up, will you? It’s not the end of the world. Think of the benefits. Angel will never get sick again, or grow old, or get a parking ticket or have to clean the bathtub—”
“Ask her how she died," one of Quicksilver's sidekicks said. He made his hand into a gun. “Pow! Right between the eyes.”
“Followed by the shortest zombie time in history,” Quick added with a grin. “Very resilient, our AngelFace.”
Alarmed, Caro turned back to Angel. “Is that true? You were shot?”
“Yeah, but not between the eyes. In the back of the head. I never saw who shot me.” She sighed. “I’m a murder statistic.”
It took Caro a few moments to absorb that. Quick and the others were no longer listening, having heard it all before. How callous they were! Why had she never noticed? “What do the police say?” she asked Angel.
“Not much. The online Revenant Liaison says they’re investigating me, to look for a reason someone would want me dead. Since 1 didn’t see anything, I guess that's all they can do.”
“Jesus, Quick!” a loud voice interrupted. “You’re burning!”
Every head turned toward Quicksilver. He was holding his arms out, looking at them in astonishment; his pale blue skin had turned pink.
“Sunburn?” he said incredulously. “I don’t believe it! It itches, too. Shit. I’ll be back as soon as I find the glitch.” He winked out.
“Nobody gets sunburned here,” someone said.
“Another first for Quicksilver!” They all laughed, apparently not averse to enjoying their leader’s discomfort.
Caro had been thinking. “Angel, are you satisfied with what the police are doing? Have you thought about getting outside help?”
“I have thought about it,” Angel admitted. “But I don’t know where to look.”
“I know a private detective,” Caro said.
