True Names: And the Opening of the Cyberspace Frontier

“Slimey!” The Limey stepped forward from the crowd, a familiar grin splitting his bearded face.

  “Slip! Is that really you?” (Not entirely a rhetorical question, under the circumstances.)

  Mr. Slippery nodded, and after a moment, the other did, too. The Limey almost ran across the space that separated them, stuck out his hand, and clapped the other on the shoulder. “Come on, come on! We have rather a lot to talk about!”

  As if on cue, the others turned back to their conversations and ignored the two friends as they walked to one of the sitting rooms that opened off the main hall. Mr. Slippery felt like a man returning to his old school ten years after graduation. Almost all the faces were different, and he had the feeling that he could never belong here again. But this was only ten weeks, not ten years.

  The Slimey Limey shut the heavy door, and the sounds from the main room were muted. He waved Slip to a chair and made a show of mixing them some drinks.

  “They’re all simulators, aren’t they?” Slip said quietly.

  “Uh?” The Limey broke off his stream of chatter and shook his head glumly. “Not all. I’ve recruited four or five apprentices. They do their best to make the place look thriving and occupied. You may have noticed various improvements in our security.”

  “It looks stronger, but it’s more appearance than fact.”

  Slimey shrugged. “I really didn’t expect it to fool the likes of you.”

  Mr. Slippery leaned forward. “Who’s left from the old group, Slimey?”

  “DON’s gone. The Mailman is gone. Wiley J. Bastard shows up a couple of times a month, but he’s not much fun anymore. I think Erythrina’s still on the System, but she hasn’t come by. I thought you were gone until today.”

  “What about Robin Hood?”

  “Gone.”

  That accounted for all the top talents. Virginia the Frog hadn’t been giving away all that much when she excused him from betraying the Coven. Slip wondered if there was any hint of smugness in the frog’s fixed and lipless smile.

  “What happened?”

  The other sighed. “There’s a depression on down in the real world, in case you hadn’t noticed; and it’s being blamed on us vandals.

  “—I know, that could scarcely explain Robin’s disappearance, only the lesser ones. Slip, I think most of our old friends are either dead—Truly Dead—or very frightened that if they come back into this Plane, they will become Truly Dead.”

  This felt very much like history repeating itself. “How do you mean?”

  The Limey leaned forward. “Slip, it’s quite obvious the government’s feeding us lies about what caused the depression. They say it was a combination of programming errors and the work of ‘vandals.’ We know that can’t be true. No ordinary vandals could cause that sort of damage. Right after the crash, I looked at what was left of the Feds’ data bases. Whatever ripped things up was more powerful than any vandal…And I’ve spoken with—p’raps I should say interrogated—Wiley. I think what we see in the real world and on this plane is in fact the wreckage of a bloody major war.”

  “Between?”

  “Creatures as far above me as I am above a chimp. The names we know them by are the Mailman, Erythrina…and just possibly Mr. Slippery.”

  “Me?” Slip tensed and sent out probes along the communications links which he perceived had created the image before him. Even though on a leash, Mr. Slippery was far more powerful than any normal warlock, and it should have been easy to measure the power of this potential opponent. But the Limey was a diffuse, almost nebulous presence. Slip couldn’t tell if he were facing an opponent in the same class as himself; in fact, he had no clear idea of the other’s strength, which was even more ominous.

  The Limey didn’t seem to notice. “That’s what I thought. Now I doubt it. I wager you were used—like Wiley and possibly DON—by the other combatants. And I see that now you’re in someone’s thrall.” His finger stabbed at the yellow-eyed frog on Mr. Slippery’s shoulder, and a sparkle of whiskey flew into the creature’s face. Virginia—or whoever was controlling the beast—didn’t know what to do, and the frog froze momentarily, then recovered its wits and emitted a pale burst of flame.

  The Limey laughed. “But it’s no one very competent. The Feds is my guess. What happened? Did they sight your True Name, or did you just sell out?”

  “The creature’s my familiar, Slimey. We all have our apprentices. If you really believe we’re the Feds, why did you let us in?”

  The other shrugged. “Because there are enemies and enemies, Slip. Beforetime, we called the government the Great Enemy. Now I’d say they are just one in a pantheon of nasties. Those of us who survived the crash are a lot tougher, a lot less frivolous. We don’t think of this as all a wry game anymore. And we’re teaching our apprentices a lot more systematically. It’s not near so much fun. Now when we talk of traitors in the Coven, we mean real, life-and-death treachery.

  “But it’s necessary. When it comes to it, if we little people don’t protect ourselves, we’re going to be eaten up by the government or…certain other creatures I fear even more.”

  The frog shifted restively on Mr. Slippery’s shoulder, and he could imagine Virginia getting ready to deliver some speech on the virtue of obeying the laws of society in order to reap its protection. He reached across to pat its cold and pimply back; now was not the time for such debate.

  “You had one of the straightest heads around here, Slip. Even if you aren’t one of us anymore, I don’t reckon you’re an absolute enemy. You and your…friend may have certain interests in common with us. There are things you should know about—if you don’t already. An’ p’raps there’ll be times you’ll help us similarly.”

  Slip felt the Federal tether loosen. Virginia must have convinced her superiors that there was actually help to be had here. “Okay. You’re right. There was a war. The Mailman was the enemy. He lost and now we’re trying to put things back together.”

  “Ah, that’s just it, old man. I don’t think the war is over. True, all that remains of the Mailman’s constructs are ‘craterfields’ spread through the government’s program space. But something like him is still very much alive.” He saw the disbelief in Mr. Slippery’s face. “I know, you an’ your friends are more powerful than any of us. But there are many of us—not just in the Coven—and we have learned a lot these past ten weeks. There are signs, so light an’ fickle you might call ’em atmosphere, that tell us something like the Mailman is still alive. It doesn’t quite have the texture of the Mailman, but it’s there.”

  Mr. Slippery nodded. He didn’t need any special explanations of the feeling. Damn! If I weren’t on a leash, I would have seen all this weeks ago, instead of finding it out secondhand. He thought back to those last minutes of their descent from godhood and felt a chill. He knew what he must ask now, and he had a bad feeling about what the answer might be. Somehow he had to prevent Virginia from hearing that answer. It would be a great risk, but he still had a few tricks he didn’t think DoW knew of. He probed back along the links that went to Arcata and D.C., feeling the interconnections and the redundancy checks. If he was lucky, he would not have to alter more than a few hundred bits of the information that would flow down to them in the next few seconds. “So who do you think is behind it?”

  “For a while, I thought it might be you. Now I’ve seen you and, uh, done some tests, I know you’re more powerful than in the old days and probably more powerful than I am now, but you’re no superman.”

  “Maybe I’m in disguise.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it.” The Limey was coming closer to the critical words that must be disguised. Slip began to alter the redundancy bits transmitted through the construct of the frog. He would have to fake the record both before and after those words if the deception was to escape detection completely. “No, there’s a certain style to this presence. A style that reminds me of our old friend, REorbyitnh rHionoad.” The name he said, and the name Mr. Slippery heard, was “Erythrin
a.” The name blended imperceptibly in its place, the name the frog heard, and reported, was “Robin Hood.”

  “Hmm, possible. He always seemed to be power hungry.” The Limey’s eyebrows went up fractionally at the pronoun “he.” Besides, Robin had been a fantastically clever vandal, not a power grabber. Slimey’s eyes flickered toward the frog, and Mr. Slippery prayed that he would play along. “Do you really think this is as great a threat as the Mailman?”

  “Who knows? The presence isn’t as widespread as the Mailman’s, and since the crash no more of us have disappeared. Also, I’m not sure that…he…is the only such creature left. Perhaps the original Mailman is still around.”

  And you can’t decide who it is that I’m really trying to fool, can you?

  The discussion continued for another half-hour, a weird three-way fencing match with just two active players. On the one hand, he and the Limey were trying to communicate past the frog, and on the other, the Slimey Limey was trying to decide if perhaps Slip was the real enemy and the frog a potential ally. The hell of it was, Mr. Slippery wasn’t sure himself of the answer to that puzzle.

  Slimey walked him out to the drawbridge. For a few moments, they stood on the graven ceramic plating and spoke. Below them, Alan paddled back and forth, looking up at them uneasily. The mist was a light rain now, and a constant sizzling came from the molten rock.

  Finally Slip said, “You’re right in a way, Slimey. I am someone’s thrall. But I will look for Robin Hood. If you’re right, you’ve got a couple of new allies. If he’s too strong for us, this might be the last you see of me.”

  The Slimey Limey nodded, and Slip hoped he had gotten the real message: He would take on Ery all by himself.

  “Well then, let’s hope this ain’t good-bye, old man.”

  Slip walked back down into the valley, aware of the Limey’s not unsympathetic gaze on his back.

  How to find her, how to speak with her? And survive the experience, that is. Virginia had forbidden him—literally on pain of death—from meeting with Ery on this plane. Even if he could do so, it would be a deadly risk for other reasons. What had Ery been doing in those minutes she dallied, when she had fooled him into descending back to the human plane before her? At the time, he had feared it was a betrayal. Yet he had lived and had forgotten the mystery. Now he wondered again. It was impossible for him to understand the complexity of those minutes. Perhaps she had weakened herself at the beginning to gull him into starting the descent, and perhaps then she hadn’t been quite strong enough to take over. Was that possible? And now she was slowly, secretly building back her powers, just as the Mailman had done? He didn’t want to believe it, and he knew if Virginia heard his suspicions, the Feds would kill her immediately. There would be no trial, no deep investigation.

  Somehow he must get past Virginia and confront Ery—confront her in such a way that he could destroy her if she were a new Mailman. And there is a way! He almost laughed: it was absurd and absurdly simple, and it was the only thing that might work. All eyes were on this plane, where magic and power flowed easily to the participants. He would attack from beneath, from the lowly magicless real world!

  But there was one final act of magic he must slip past Virginia, something absolutely necessary for a real world confrontation with Erythrina.

  He had reached the far ridge and was starting down the hillside that led to the swamps. Even preoccupied, he had given the right signs flawlessly. The guardian sprites were not nearly so vigilant toward constructs moving away from the castle. As the wet brush closed in about them, the familiar red and black spider—or its cousin—swung down from above.

  “Beware, beware,” came the tiny voice. From the flecks of gold across its abdomen, he knew the right response: left hand up and flick the spider away. Instead Slip raised his right hand and struck at the creature.

  The spider hoisted itself upward, screeching faintly, then dropped toward Slip’s neck—to land squarely on the frog. A free-for-all erupted as the two scrambled across the back of his neck, pale flame jousting against venom. Even as he moved to save the frog, Mr. Slippery melted part of his attention into a data line that fed a sporting goods store in Montreal. An order was placed and later that day a certain very special package would be in the mail to the Boston International Rail Terminal.

  Slip made a great show of dispatching the spider, and as the frog settled back on his shoulder, he saw that he had probably fooled Virginia. That he had expected. Fooling Ery would be much the deadlier, chancier thing.

  If this afternoon were typical, then July in Providence must be a close approximation to Hell. Roger Pollack left the tube as it passed the urbapt block and had to walk nearly four hundred meters to get to the tower he sought. His shirt was soaked with sweat from just below the belt line right up to his neck. The contents of the package he had picked up at the airport train station sat heavily in his right coat pocket, tapping against his hip with every step, reminding him that this was high noon in more ways than one.

  Pollack quickly crossed the blazing concrete plaza and walked along the edge of the shadow that was all the tower cast in the noonday sun. All around him the locals swarmed, all ages, seemingly unfazed by the still, moist, hot air. Apparently you could get used to practically anything.

  Even an urbapt in summer in Providence. Pollack had expected the buildings to be more depressing. Workers who had any resources became data commuters and lived outside the cities. Of course, some of the people here were data-set users too and so could be characterized as data commuters. Many of them worked as far away from home as any exurb dweller. The difference was that they made so little money (when they had a job at all) that they were forced to take advantage of the economies of scale the urbapts provided.

  Pollack saw the elevator ahead but had to detour around a number of children playing stickball in the plaza. The elevator was only half-full, so a wave from him was all it took to keep it grounded till he could get aboard.

  No one followed him on, and the faces around him were disinterested and entirely ordinary. Pollack was not fooled. He hadn’t violated the letter of Virginia’s law; he wasn’t trying to see Erythrina on the data net. But he was going to see Debby Charteris, which came close to being the same thing. He imagined the Feds debating with themselves, finally deciding it would be safe to let the two godlings get together if it were on this plane where the State was still the ultimate, all-knowing god. He and Debby would be observed. Even so, he would somehow discover if she were the threat the Limey saw. If not, the Feds would never know of his suspicions. But if Ery had betrayed them all and meant to set herself up in place of—or in league with—the Mailman, then in the next few minutes one of them would die.

  The express slid to a stop with a deceptive gentleness that barely gave a feeling of lightness. Pollack paid and got off.

  Floor 25 was mainly shopping mall. He would have to find the stairs to the residential apts between Floors 25 and 35. Pollack drifted through the mall. He was beginning to feel better about the whole thing. I’m still alive, aren’t I? If Ery had really become what the Limey and Slip feared, then he probably would have had a little “accident” before now. All the way across the continent he sat with his guts frozen, thinking how easy it would be for someone with the Mailman’s power to destroy an air transport, even without resorting to the military’s lasers. A tiny change in navigation or traffic-control directions, and any number of fatal incidents could be arranged. But nothing had happened, which meant that either Ery was innocent or that she hadn’t noticed him. (And that second possibility was unlikely if she were a new Mailman. One impression that remained stronger than any other from his short time as godling was the omniscience of it all.)

  It turned out the stairs were on the other side of the mall, marked by a battered sign reminiscent of old-time highway markers: FLOORS > 26-30. The place wasn’t really too bad, he supposed, eyeing the stained but durable carpet that covered the stairs. And the hallways coming off each land
ing reminded him of the motels he had known as a child, before the turn of the century. There was very little trash visible, the people moving around him weren’t poorly dressed, and there was only the faintest spice of disinfectant in the air. Apt module 28355, where Debbie Charteris lived, might be high-class. It did have an exterior view, he knew that. Maybe Erythrina—Debbie—liked living with all these other people. Surely, now that the government was so interested in her, she could move anywhere she wished.

  But when he reached it, he found floor 28 no different from the others he had seen: carpeted hallway stretching away forever beneath dim lights that showed identical module doorways dwindling in perspective. What was Debbie/Erythrina like that she would choose to live here?

  “Hold it.” Three teenagers stepped from behind the slant of the stairs. Pollack’s hand edged toward his coat pocket. He had heard of the gangs. These three looked like heavies, but they were well and conservatively dressed, and the small one actually had his hair in a braid. They wanted very much to be thought part of the establishment.

  The short one flashed something silver at him. “Building Police.” And Pollack remembered the news stories about Federal Urban Support paying youngsters for urbapt security: “A project that saves money and staff, while at the same time giving our urban youth an opportunity for responsible citizenship.”

  Pollack swallowed. Best to treat them like real cops. He showed them his id. “I’m from out of state. I’m just visiting.”

  The other two closed in, and the short one laughed. “That’s sure. Fact, Mr. Pollack, Sammy’s little gadget says you’re in violation of Building Ordinance.” The one on Pollack’s left waved a faintly buzzing cylinder across Pollack’s jacket, then pushed a hand into the jacket and withdrew Pollack’s pistol, a lightweight ceramic slug-gun perfect for hunting hikes—and which should have been perfect for getting past a building’s weapon detectors.

  Sammy smiled down at the weapon, and the short one continued, “Thing you didn’t know, Mr. Pollack, is Federal law requires a metal tag in the butt of these cram guns. Makes ’em easy to detect.” Until the tag was removed. Pollack suspected that somehow this incident might never be reported.