Part 5 (1/2)

The Big Tent, as its name suggested, was the largest tent in the Factory. It was set up in the shed's south end, oriented diagonally to the shed walls -- the only way it would fit between the support pillars. Originally it was an army mess tent, but we had painted it to look like a circus big top (or actually, I had painted it, after Julie and Irwin made a halfhearted start; red and white stripes get boring pretty quickly). It housed the majority of the Factory's equipment, including a bank of networked computer-graphics workstations that Julie's uncle had picked up off the street after they'd fallen from the back of a truck.

The Big Tent was as cluttered as my bedroom and as messy as the shed itself had once been.

But there were levels of disorder, and as we came in I thought I saw the reason for Julie's spat with Irwin: overnight, one of the workstations had been gutted, its parts spread out across a worktable. This happened all the time -- Irwin was constantly taking one or another of the computers offline, taking it apart and reconfiguring it to squeeze out an extra ounce of performance -- but having one of the machines down could cause problems with the rest of the network, especially when we were running a demo. So either Julie had forgotten to tell Irwin she'd be needing the full system today, or, more likely, he hadn't listened.

The sight of all the hardware in the tent triggered another odd reaction from Penny. She pulled her arm loose from Julie's grasp, went over to the workable, and made a very authoritative-sounding observation about the collection of computer parts. I couldn't really understand what she said -- she used the techno-dialect that ex-employees of Bit Warehouse are supposed to be fluent in, but which I'd never learned -- but it impressed Irwin enough to bring him partway out of his sulk.

”That's right,” he told her. ”Have you worked with one of these before?”

Instead of answering, Penny examined the other two workstations, the ones that hadn't been taken apart. She ran her thumb over a rough spot on one computer's plastic-and-metal sh.e.l.l. ”Did you sand off the brand names?” she asked.

”They came that way,” Julie spoke up. ”Part of a special deal.”

”Yeah,” Adam said. ”Ninety percent off, with no serial numbers. . .”

”Be quiet.”

Penny was staring at me.

”Oops,” I said. ”Sorry, I didn't mean you.”

”Andrew hears voices in his head,” Dennis explained, smirking. ”He's got family up there.”

”Family. . . ?”

”It's complicated,” said Julie. She shot a warning glance at Dennis. ”Andrew will explain it to you himself, if he feels like it.”

I definitely didn't feel like it, not just then. ”So,” I said, hoping to change the subject, ”what demo are we going to run?”

Dennis sat down at a computer terminal and punched a few keys. ”What about Dancing Cripples?” he suggested. ”You like that one.”

Dancing Cripples was a demo version of the application Julie had dreamed up to pique my interest back when I'd first tried Eidolon -- the application that a paraplegic was supposed to be able to program himself, using the headset-and-glove Landscaper interface. Though the interface had not yet materialized, I'd asked Julie about the application itself so many times that she'd finally had Dennis code a demo the hard way -- and a representative from the Veterans Administration (we were careful not to call it ”Dancing Cripples” in front of him) had liked it enough to give us a five-thousand-dollar research grant.

”All right,” I said. ”Let's do that one.”

”Good,” said Julie. ”Andrew, why don't you be the guy in the wheelchair? We'll let Penny wear the data suit.”

A data suit was a full-body version of a data glove. The Reality Factory had three data suits, each in a different size: one for large adults, one for small adults, and one for kids. Julie grabbed the kid-sized one for Penny.

”You'll have to take this off, Mouse,” Julie said, tugging at one of the sleeves of Penny's oversize sweater. Penny looked startled again, and made no move to do as she was told. ”Here,” said Julie, ”let me help you. . .” She stepped behind Penny, grabbed the sweater at the waist with both hands and started tugging it upwards.

For just a moment Penny went rigid, resisting. There was an incredibly fast flickering of expressions on her face, as if she couldn't make up her mind whether to be frightened or outraged or cooperative. I even saw -- or thought I saw -- a flash of anger so intense that it seemed Penny might turn around and hit Julie for presuming to undress her. But the anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Penny became pa.s.sive; she let her arms be lifted into the air and let the sweater be lifted over them, and off.

She wasn't wearing much, underneath. In fact the only article of clothing beneath the sweater was a very skimpy tank top that bared Penny's shoulders and collarbone, and left no doubt that she didn't have a bra on. The tank top was bright pink, and had the words f.u.c.k DOLL printed across the front. I must have blushed when I read that -- and Penny, seeing me blush, hearing Dennis whistle, crossed her arms over her chest as if we'd caught her naked. Meanwhile Julie, crouched behind Penny and unable to see any of this, tried to get her to step into the legs of the data suit: ”I need you to lift your right foot, Mouse. . . Mouse?”

I went to get the wheelchair I'd be using for my part in the demo. The wheelchair itself was totally ordinary -- more army surplus -- but the data glove that went with it had been specially programmed to interpret individual finger movements as the movement of whole limbs. After I'd seated myself in the chair and, with Irwin's help, got the data glove plugged into the network, Dennis punched another key at his terminal that caused a computer-generated mannequin figure to appear on the monitor in front of him. I curled my index finger in the glove, and the mannequin figure raised its left leg, kicking back; I curled my middle finger, and the figure raised its right leg; I tapped my index and middle fingers together against a sensor pad on the wheelchair armrest, and the figure clicked its heels and jumped in the air; I wiggled my thumb and pinky, and the figure waved its arms.

”Looks good,” said Dennis. Next he turned his attention to Penny, who, with much coaxing, had finally let Julie zip her up inside the data suit. This part of the systems check took longer, because checking out the data suit requires that the person wearing it actually stand on one foot, jump up and down, wave his or her arms, etc., and Penny had become extremely self-conscious -- but eventually, with still more nudging from Julie, the check was completed successfully.

Now it was time to put on the headsets. As I've already mentioned, Irwin had designed these to be comfortable, but they can still be a bit claustrophobic at first, before the power is switched on -- like heavy blindfolds with cables attached. As Irwin adjusted the strap on the back of my headset, I could hear Julie crooning, ”Relax, Mouse. It'll only be dark for a second.”

Irwin plugged my headset into the network and turned it on. A 3-D test pattern appeared in front of my eyes. Dennis ran a sound check: an invisible locomotive rumbled past my left ear, then past my right ear, then past both ears at once. I gave Dennis a thumbs-up.

”All right,” said Dennis. ”Here we go. . .” As he tapped out a last sequence on his keyboard, I crooked my index and middle fingers in the data glove, bending them like the legs of a sitting man.

The test pattern dissolved into a first-person view of the Eidolon universe, which in this demo consisted of a giant ballroom with a white-and-black checkerboard floor, ringed by blue marble pillars.

The ballroom had no walls or ceiling; the checkerboard floated in a void that started out dull red but would grow brighter, s.h.i.+fting color like a sunrise, as the demo progressed.

I panned my head down and examined my ”self”: not my real self but my Eidolon self, a mannequin figure in a cartoon wheelchair. The illusion was surprisingly convincing, and would have been even more so if I hadn't felt my real legs to be in a slightly different position than those of the mannequin. I made a flicking motion with my index finger; while my real leg stayed put, Eidolon Andrew swung his left foot forward, proving that he wasn't such a cripple after all.

I looked up and saw Eidolon Penny facing me across the dance floor. Eidolon Penny was taller than real-world Penny: she had thicker arms and legs, a larger frame, and much bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s; her face was a texture-map of some swimsuit model's face that Dennis had scanned into the computer, with an expression that never changed. But while she might not look like the real Penny, she moved like her: s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably from foot to foot, crossing and uncrossing her arms, glancing back over her shoulder as if she expected a monster to materialize behind her at any moment.

The music started. The song was Lyle Lovett's ”The Waltzing Fool,” a slow piano-and-guitar ballad that I really liked even if it was a little sad. As the first strains sounded, I straightened out my index and middle fingers; in the real world I remained seated in the wheelchair, but in the Eidolon universe, Eidolon Andrew stood tall on two good legs. I twisted my hand counterclockwise and swung my index finger to the side; Eidolon Andrew turned halfway around and kicked out at his wheelchair, which shattered, morphing into a flock of doves that flew up into the air and began circling the ballroom, weaving between the marble pillars. I twisted my hand clockwise, curled my thumb in front of my index finger, and dipped my hand forward; Eidolon Andrew turned back towards Eidolon Penny, crossed his left arm in front of his waist, and bowed.

Eidolon Andrew was careful to keep his distance from Eidolon Penny. If I had approached her, there was a subroutine in the demo that would have allowed our two eidolons to actually join hands and dance together, but unless we simultaneously touched in the real world, we wouldn't have felt any contact -- and embracing someone you can see but not feel is a very disorienting experience, one that I thought would probably freak Penny out completely. So I stayed back, and just air-danced with her: Eidolon Andrew stretched his right arm out to the side, kept his left arm curled in front of him, and swayed in time to the music. Eidolon Penny swayed too, but she wouldn't raise her arms, and she kept looking up nervously to see what the doves were doing.

Then Dennis's voice cut in over the headset speakers, saying, ”This song is bo-o-oring!” and Lyle Lovett's soft ballad was replaced in mid-stanza by the Rolling Stones' ”Brown Sugar.” I jerked my head involuntarily, and something in my headset came unplugged. The goggles went dark, even as the earphones kept blasting away.

”d.a.m.n it, Dennis!” I said, reaching up to yank my headset off.

Dennis paid no mind to my complaint. He was gaping at Penny, who still had her headset on and was still dancing. Only it wasn't the same dance anymore.

The self-conscious sway had disappeared. Now Penny's whole body was in motion, hips, arms, legs, hands, feet, all gyrating to the beat, without a hint of shyness. And the way she moved. . . well, as Adam later observed, all of a sudden the slogan on her tank top didn't seem so inappropriate.

Dennis stared, transfixed. Irwin stared too. I stared. The only one of us who didn't stare at Penny was Julie -- and that was because she was staring at me, instead, with that same funny smile on her face.

Eventually I noticed this, and when Julie saw that I noticed, she inclined her head in Penny's direction and raised her eyebrows as if to say: So, what do you think?

”Adam,” I said, ”what the h.e.l.l is going on?”

”Well gee, Andrew, I don't know,” said Adam, his voice dripping with sarcasm, ”but if I didn't have my head up my a.s.s, I might think Penny was acting like a different person. . . or maybe like a whole bunch of different people.” Then he broke up laughing, and added: ”I just love a parade, don't you?”

SECOND BOOK:.

MOUSE.

4.

Mouse is lying in a strange bed, in a strange house, with her hand pressed between the thighs of a man she has never seen before. She doesn't know what day it is, or what city; she has no idea how she got here.

A moment ago it was Sunday evening, April 20th, and she was sitting in the kitchen of her apartment, checking the movie listings in the Seattle Times. She was drinking a gla.s.s of red wine -- never a good idea, but she had an overwhelming craving for it, and someone had left an open bottle in the cupboard above her sink. So she poured herself a gla.s.s, took a sip, and traced her finger down the column of showtimes, trying to decide between The English Patient and the new Jim Carrey movie.

-- and now she is not there. There's no sense of having lost consciousness; all she did was blink, and suddenly everything is different. Where she was clothed and seated, she is now naked and lying on her side. The fresh taste of wine has become the stale aftertaste of vodka and cigarettes -- she doesn't drink hard liquor or smoke, but she recognizes that aftertaste as if she does both, a lot. The cool roughness of the newsprint under her finger has become the warm clasp of flesh around her hand. And the face of a stranger has materialized, just inches from her own, snoring gin fumes.

She doesn't scream. She wants to, but a lifetime of losing time -- and covering up the fact -- has left her skilled at controlling her reactions. She screams inside; outside she only squeaks, a short sharp note like a hiccup. Even this is muted, as her lips clamp together to bottle the sound before it can grow.