Chapter 12
“Say something original,” Franklin repeated to the audience of pale faces staring back at him.
In his imaginings of this moment he thought that by uttering this phrase his deeper meaning would be instantly understood. He thought that he would be buoyed along by loud and boisterous acclamation from the crowd into a long but clear and witty monologue about the homogenized nature of the WetWeb. He imagined how it would twist their perception of the world around them until they could no longer see the real world. A real world that he himself, the author and hero of his story, was now just realizing - only glimpsing for the first time.
But, his imagination of the moment was quite different from the reality. The small crowd of elderly book enthusiasts stared back at him with questioning eyes. The understanding of the truth of the WetWeb that he thought would come to him in an epiphany instead eluded him. He began to wonder if he had anything original to say. He wondered if he had anything to say at all.
Franklin looked down at his notebook and flipped through a few of the dog-eared hand written pages. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. Then, he started to read from a prepared speech that he had scribbled earlier in the day.
Continuing, Franklin said;
Claudia invited me to read to you tonight from my new work in progress, which is about the history of the WetWeb. I cannot guarantee that this will become a book, and I have never tried to publish a book previously.
As Claudia mentioned, I am a writer of experiential features. Pulp features to tell the truth. My original intent with this work was to create a “retro” pulp feature that would be published on the WetWeb and appeal to an audience that appreciates a bit of nostalgia with their pulp features. But now I’m not so sure. Now I think this may be a book after all, and perhaps I will find a way to print it, or publish it as they called it in the old style. However, I am fairly certain there are no publishing houses left where I could submit this work. But if that is the case, then I guess it will need to be self-published and then we can pass it about.
This work started as the story of Anand Ramasubramanian. Anand was a man who was there at the beginning with Christopher Mark and Al McKnight. I have been interviewing him for the last couple of days. He was anxious to tell me his story, what he said was the true story of the origin of the WetWeb. I have learned from Anand all about the development of the technique known popularly as Synaptic Derivation, and also he described for me the first application of this new technology. It was originally deployed as a game where remote users were able to take control of hosts who pretended to be Cowboys and Outlaws in a Wild West setting. The company setup a simulated Wild Western town in a village outside of Shanghai in China. It was quite popular at the time and I would expect that some of you in the audience today will remember when this unique gaming simulation was launched.
In any case, hearing his firsthand account of the violence both real and simulated in the fake western game was a good action story. I was excited when I heard this. I knew that this was the pulp feature that I would publish and this story had the right combination of nostalgia and action to become a popular pulp feature.
Then, continuing his story, Anand started to tell me about how this new technology started to evolve. Yesterday when I was with him, he said something to me that I did not understand, but even so I feel that this was central to the true history of the WetWeb; a history that has become obscured. I would like to read that passage to you now.
Franklin flipped through his notebook to another page that he had dog-eared previously. He quickly skimmed the page to make sure he was in the right place. He looked up and the small group gathered in the Chimneysweep bar seemed to be interested and this gave him confidence. Reading aloud from the hand written pages, Franklin quoted Anand Ramasubramanian.
He said, “The WetWeb is part of you and all the people around you. It touches your society. Can you take yourself out of yourself and see, really see, the world around you?”
Franklin looked up from the page and then quietly closed the notebook. He continued now, no longer reading and said;
I did not understand what Anand was saying yesterday, but since then, I have been exploring my, or rather, our world. I have been trying to see our world with new eyes. It is these explorations that brought me to this place. It is these explorations that caused me to met Claudia, and all the events that followed have all transpired as a result of this idea, this question, about the true nature of our world. It was this question that brought me here to you. It is this question that made me think about the nature of the work, about my writing.
So, now I think I have stopped writing a retro-pulp feature about the history of the WetWeb. Nor am I writing a more prestigious content feature based on the biography of Anand Ramasubramanian and Al McKnight. I think I am now less interested in publishing a best-selling pulp feature about Cowboys and Outlaws, and instead I have started writing a new story; a book. This new story will be the true history of the WetWeb. It will be a story about us.
Franklin opened the notebook to another book-marked page. Looking up Franklin scanned the faces across the dim room. Thin white hair clung to their heads in clumps. Beneath their translucent skin, Franklin could see the purple tracks of veins and arteries. Their lips were wet from beer, or vodka, or gin. Their eyes were dark. He wondered if they understood him. He looked at Claudia, and her smile encouraged him.
“The story, the book, begins with this morning,” Franklin continued.
In the back of the room the heavy door opened and the candle flames, that cast small halos of light on the little tables, all flickered in unison as the warm air from the room encountered the cold air rushing in from the night outside.
Franklin watched them enter. They moved to stand in the back as there were no chairs or tables that were not already occupied by the elderly members of the book club. The newcomers entered quietly. Once in the room, they blended into the dark corners.
Franklin tired to ignore the young group who had entered. They looked like the Synapse Hosts that he had seen at the Coffee Café down the street. It bothered him that they were here. This work was not for Synapse Hosts. They were from inside the dark houses. They were not part of the book club. They broke his momentum. They disrupted his confidence.
He turned his eyes back to the notebook that lay open on the podium. He focused on this moment and tried to disregard this intrusion.
Franklin again began to read aloud;
I woke up surprised this morning. It was early and I had not slept long. Bright morning light was beaming into my bedroom. Like most people, I prefer artificial light in my house and rarely open any windows, especially in my bedroom. As I woke, I realized to my annoyance that someone had purposefully opened the window shade.
I stepped out of bed gingerly and quickly manipulated the window occlusion controls which I had not used often. Through a series of trial and error attempts, eventually I was able to close the shade. While I was doing this, I was acutely aware that anyone passing by on the street below might casually glance up and see my wide undressed figure standing in the window. As I worked the shade draw-strings, I looked out to see if my privacy was compromised.
The street where I live is lined with tall deciduous trees and this time of year they still have most of their leaves so the street is mottled by direct sunlight interspersed by shade. Standing by a tree across from my house was a tall male Warmbot. It was standing there with its grill tilted up towards my window, as if it were staring into my bedroom, as if it were watching me sleeping. It’s brushed steel grill and video lens eyes were trained in my direction. It was watching my window, observing me. My appearance in the window did not alter its behavior in any way and it continued to stand with its grill tilted up, facing my window.
I closed the shade and the bright light was gone from my bedroom. My surprise at being awakened by morning li
ght was replaced by a feeling of foreboding. This was not the first time I felt watched.
I quickly wrapped myself in a bathrobe and slippers and started down the stairs. Pausing at the top of the stairs, I peered into my wife Dolly’s bedroom. She seemed to be sleeping contentedly, stretched out on her soft bed.
Franklin paused in his reading. He realized that Claudia, who was sitting with perfect posture in the front row of the small audience just heard about his wife Dolly for the first time. He then immediately realized that by pausing here, he was drawing further attention to his faux pas. He wondered how much information about their casual connection last night had been communicated throughout the small book circle. Uncomfortable silence began to fill the room. There was nothing for him to do now but read on; and so he did.