The Process Server

  ***

  Our last online experience and the creeping sensation of dependency I’d felt in the “Montreal café” convinced me that the next time we logged on, it was going to be Draxari-style: just a visor and a keyboard, and no full-immersion chair.

  “Suits me,” said Jayde. “Feels creepy just waking up in another world, knowing it’s all fake but not being able to tell with your own senses.”

  Perhaps that was the biggest difference between us and most Earthers: we’d had other options. They may have been shitty, limited options.

  But in many ways we still had a sense of greater potential.

  Even a social outcast and a genetic deviant had better opportunities than many people on the old world; we weren’t born into multi-generational debt, eager to accept the seeming normalcy of an illusory existence, like so many before.

  We headed back to the flop hotel in old town; it wasn’t pretty, but it was private as hell. The smell of urine in the lobby alone was enough to avoid prying eyes, and the dark corners of the room contained unconscious patrons, not trouble.

  Back in the room, we visored up and pulled up virtual keys, logging on at Shen-Fui Shen Stop. ‘In’ traffic was functioning fine, but ‘out’ traffic was still technically closed, which meant the security team had probably regrouped at the base of the building across the street.

  Outside, the change in the real-world week had led to a new vote by block residents, and our new surroundings were Morocco, 1999, the city of Tangiers. As was always the case, the public stops had grafted perfectly over the city outlay, the two seamlessly blending into a place entirely new, yet strangely familiar and secure.

  From the outside, Shen-Fui Shen Stop was now white adobe and glass, to better blend with its surroundings, but was otherwise the same squared-off ‘U’ shape it had been in the Montreal scenario.

  The heat was oppressive, and we both logged into options and switched to t-shirts and shorts, appropriate for a busy, loud street corner in an African city.

  It was a better blend for the weather, until we realized the virtual locals were staring at us and muttering as they walked by, a parade of suddenly anxious men in middle-of-the-day office casual, and traditional style robes and fez.

  I looked at Jayde, who was wearing a longish halter top and cut-off jean shorts – “Daisy Dukes”, according to the options menu. Then it hit me and I muttered to her loudly. “We’re in a Muslim country in 1999 and a lot of you is exposed. You’re creating a scene.”

  She put both hands on her hips as a defensive reflex and was about to say something when she stopped, looking thoughtful for a moment.

  “Huh,” she said.

  Then she logged into options and switched to an ankle length skirt and a light-but-full-sleeved blouse, with a sunhat topping it off. Within a few moments, the crowds passing us on the street corner had stopped paying attention.

  “I feel like an idiot,” she said.

  “That was the smart play. I’m …”

  “Don’t fucking say you’re proud of me, Bob. Again, to reiterate: not my dad. I’m 250 years old.”

  I sighed. “I don’t mean it like that, OK? I’m not being paternalistic or any of that shit. I just … I can imagine how tough it is having the collective experience of two-and-a-half centuries but feeling sometimes like you wanna do the 14-year-old thing.”

  She flashed irritation again for a moment, but then caught herself.

  “I’d be lying if I said my first inclination isn’t always to do what I want. But I know better. I’m not an idiot, you know? I wasn’t when I was actually 14. In fact, I was a hell of lot smarter than a lot of the douchebags we deal with.”

  “I’m surprised you even remember 14,” I said, regretting it a split second later. “I mean … you know, in your time…”

  She sighed. “Yeah … my time. Honestly? I don’t remember. I don’t remember a lot of things, you know? I don’t remember what my parents and brother looked like; I don’t remember what any of my childhood friends looked like, or most of their names. And I don’t remember why we got on this, so let’s just drop it.”

  “Point taken.”

  Around the building, on the next block, the security team’s barricades were still in place, still respected by the virtual locals only now the black spray-paint letters on the orange background were in Arabic script. Across the road, the security team was back in place, all wearing the same olive-drab uniforms, and black visors as Montreal, all touting the same assault rifles and machine pistols.

  We waited on the other side of the street, studying a poster that had been plastered to the nearest old brick wall. Jayde said, “So what now, boss? I don’t think the Molotov trick is going to work twice.”

  “The building’s a Follower-friendly location. They don’t have much of a presence online, being Freeversers, so it’s going to be a real stronghold, a community fairly similar to its real-world equivalent. They must be letting local users in and out, and presumably the private Scenario suite is at the top.”

  “So…?”

  “So we need some help from an insider.”

  We walked east for a few blocks, before the street funneled into a wide open square. The Casa Barata market was packed with virtual residents and logged-in locals, all marveling at the massive variety of goods for sale.

  The canvas-roofed stalls were wall-to-wall, with a six-foot wide walkway between each row. As customers walked by, the hawkers threw out their best pitch lines, pegging the out-of-towners with their best English.

  “Silk scarves! You want cheap, I give you best deal, yes?” and “Best incense! Smelling wonderful, feeling good, eh? Just ten dollars.”

  Jayde and I stood on the perimeter, watching it all unfold under the baking noon sun.

  She said, “So what are we looking for?”

  “The Followers are vehemently against what they see as “old-school religion”, which is basically any group belief other than their own, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So we can use that. We already know this place conforms to realistic social norms of the day, so most of the people here are Muslim. This entire overlay must be pissing off the few Followers who log in, to no end. And we know the only real reason they log is for access to the MultiNet’s knowledge base and to recruit non-believers.”

  “OK?”

  “So we find a library and get ourselves saved.”