Chapter 4
“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 improvements 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, we 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; the 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 besides 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.