It had been at least four years since Serah had been in-Phrame, socially at least. She did enjoy using it for immersive research, or the occasional telepresence trip to do a short interview halfway around the world without having to travel. She knew, as a slowbander with a skullcap, she was missing the total immersion of the newer constructs that completely fooled all of the senses, but she was old-fashioned enough that she still took delight in the imperfections of the Root Realm.
She stood on the main platform of her “home interface,” still in the generic “beach” configuration everyone started with, and most people had extensively modified or at least selected a different environment within the first five minutes of entering. However, as far as Serah was concerned, she’d spent too much time meticulously organizing and customizing her Root Realm home and workspace to worry about elaborate custom interfaces for her infrequent visits here.
In the distance in front of her, she saw a green, hilly island lined with palm trees; behind her, a larger beach framed by rocky bluffs. Gentle waves bobbed up and down, and an inexplicable, unseen wind chime sounded somewhere to her right, where there were no trees, and certainly no wind chimes. She never understood that part, and it usually took her right out of the experience before it began. She’d already muted the ambient marimba music and the calm female voice that greeted her and read out loud whatever she was reading at the time. Generic messages, general news, and default advertisements spun around her, along with the always-empty private mailbox, blank calendar, and the picture frame that cycled through stock pictures of models and landmarks.
With her left hand, she gestured for the transport booth, simply a convention allowing instantaneous movement between environments, called constructs, within the Phrame. While there were various shortcuts and emergency protocols for bypassing transport booths, suddenly teleporting into or out of the middle of a crowd was taboo in most constructs. Phrame residents felt it destroyed the illusion of “reality” for them. More fantastical constructs usually didn’t adhere to such conventions.
A circular pattern, approximately a meter in diameter, lit up on the floor in front of her, surrounded by a column of light. She stepped into the light, ignored the voice/thought triggered interface, and manually flipped through the directory that rotated around her.
Fiscer owned a few small constructs in Phrame for conducting business. A bit of research showed he also had a half-dozen favorite hangouts. She decided to start with those. He was currently under arrest and confined to his living quarters and the Phrame. With Locke Industries currently preparing a case against him, he certainly wouldn’t be conducting business tonight, at least not directly. He was the type of person who would have an agent alert him if someone looked him up directly, and he wasn’t the type to invoke privacy mode, so she resorted to scanning the names of all active participants in each construct. She found him in the third one, the one she really hoped she wouldn’t be forced to visit, “de Plezierkoepel.”
A series of promotional advertisements and discount specials for new visitors instantly formed around her, most describing what she could only describe as “tasteful debauchery at discount prices.” This obviously slanted the message to the broadest possible audience; reality would be far seedier. She briefly reconsidered going, wondering if it might be better for her to disconnect, go to her kitchen, brew a coffee, and wait for news from Erik.
In the end, she had to go. The job was the only thing still keeping her sane; the only sense of control she had. She left a quick note telling Erik where she was going and why, but didn’t wait for a response. Steeling her resolve, she pressed the “transport” button. The circular patch of floor beneath her lit up in bright gold, and her surroundings slowly faded into a bluish glow.
When the glow subsided, she was standing on an arrival platform in a large reception area reminiscent of an upscale hotel lobby. Several people stood around talking, waiting for companions to arrive, or manifesting whatever outfits and accessories they needed for the evening. Others darted across the room, heading for transport booths that would take them to other parts of the Plezierkoepel construct.
“Good evening, Miss Wyles,” a friendly voice beside her said. She spun around to find an attractive man dressed as a concierge suddenly beside her. “Welcome to de Plezierkoepel,” he continued. “I see you are new. I’m here to offer assistance and answer any questions.”
“Well,” Serah said, attempting to sound as casual and confident as possible, “I’m looking for a gentleman named Liam Fiscer. I don’t suppose you could direct me to him?”
“Certainly. Liam Fiscer is currently in De Wallen,” he gestured toward the row of transit tubes on the far end of the room. “I’m sorry our rules do not allow me to be more specific, but unless he has invoked privacy, you will be able to locate him via your heads-up overlay once you’re in the same area of the construct.”
Serah thanked the concierge, walked over to one of the transit tubes, and pulled up De Wallen from the destination settings. The wall in front of her opened, revealing an elaborate cobblestone street about 15 meters wide. One side was flanked by ancient brick buildings, most only a few stories high; the opposite was a manufactured canal that ran about a kilometer in each direction before disappearing around a turn. Every hundred meters or so, a stone bridge allowed passage from the street she was on to an identical street on the other side. Various boats and gondolas rode up and down the canal, passing through archways under the bridges. From the boats, groups of people in different states of undress smiled and waved as they floated by.
Serah quickly took in the surroundings. She’d been to the real De Wallen a few times and seen several archival vids from its heyday in the early 21st century, likely the same period this construct was modeled after. Parts of it were familiar, at least, though she still didn’t relax in the slightest.
She walked to an information kiosk and pulled up the simulation’s preference menu. “Show me Liam Fiscer,” she said. A green directional arrow only she could see appeared in front of her, pointing toward his precise location—a building just a few dozen meters up the road. A series of animated yellow dots on the ground, also visible only to her, indicated that her quickest path was to walk down the narrow alleyway next to the building directly ahead of her.
She glanced around the street, assessing the environment. Most people stood in small groups, talking, while some wandered around alone. Nearly everyone was dressed provocatively in everything from very revealing evening wear to form-fitting bondage outfits in leather or latex. One or two were completely nude, aside from a collar or other distinguishing neckwear. She looked down at her own avatar, dressed in a conservative white blouse and black slacks with wedge-heeled shoes that practically screamed, “I am a basic, default presentation. I do not belong here.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. This was a mistake. This was exactly what Henry meant when he said the story was “beneath her.” He had tried to protect her exactly the way she asked, but she was too busy pretending to be confident to realize it. She began to wonder whether all crime investigations inevitably ended up in some seedy pleasure dome. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath. There was nothing to fear. Lots of people frequented establishments like this in the Phrame, as well as in real life. In the frame, it was extremely common, legal, safe, and respectable. Meanwhile, she was a professional, with a job to do, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.
After a few deep breaths, she managed to defeat her embarrassment.
“Hey, Serah!” a familiar voice called from the crowd before her. Her heart sank.
“Jafet!? Hi!” she said, faking surprise and excitement while stifling a genuine nervous laugh. Jafet’s appearance was subtly altered for this construct, but still close to the co-worker she knew. He was approximately two inches taller, much more muscular, and now dressed in black leather chaps and a tight-fitting black shirt unbuttoned halfway down his smooth, tanned chest. She’d never socialized with him outside of work before, but given the amount of innocent flirting he did, which she found amusing and never discouraged, she was somehow not surprised to find him here.
“I can’t believe it! You’re never in-Phrame. As soon as I got the notification, I just had to pop over to see if it was true.”
She cursed herself for not setting up privacy filters before entering. She wanted to be visible in case Erik tried to contact her, but now realized anyone looking for her could find her as quickly and easily as she found Fiscer. She wondered why Jafet would have a notification daemon that alerted him when she went in-Phrame. That probably wasn’t for strictly professional reasons.
“By the way, this is my wife, Camilla,” he gestured toward a slim, dark woman standing next to him. She was similarly dressed in a very short black rubber dress with an absurd amount of cleavage that could only defy gravity and stay in place in a virtual simulation such as this. Camilla said nothing but nodded, then began chewing on her thumbnail as she looked Serah up and down as if she was a Sunday dinner. At least this answered her previous question about why Jafet kept alerts up.
“Very nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Meléndez. I’ve heard so much about you,” Serah said, then quickly turned back to Jafet. “Look, I’m here on a story. I really don’t have time to … be social … if you know what I mean.”
Jafet suddenly turned serious. “Understood. I can be on the clock too. Let me help. What do you need?” His tone was sincere, and she knew he genuinely meant it.
She thought for a moment, then gestured for them to follow her into the alley where the HUD was directing her. “I’ve got a lead on a tech runner named Liam Fiscer that I desperately need to talk to.”
“And he’s here?” Jafet said.
“The next building over. Someplace called La Chasse Club?”
“We know that one.” Jafet nodded and gestured to his wife, who smiled knowingly. “Wait, you aren’t just planning to walk in there and start asking him questions, are you?”
“Well,” Serah said and stopped walking. “Okay, admittedly, I haven’t thought this through. You don’t understand the whole story.”
Jafet shook his head, then looked directly into Serah’s eyes. “Don’t need to. Do you trust me?”
“Yes, I suppose so—”
Before she could finish, Jafet reached out and tore open her blouse. Serah yelped instinctively, then remembered it was virtual clothing and couldn’t be damaged that way. She was also grateful that she had selected and programmed virtual undergarments, more psychological comfort than necessity, as virtual bodies hardly required cosmetic support. Jafet continued by untucking the blouse entirely and tying it in a knot just below her now-exposed bra, exposing ample amounts of cleavage and midriff. Then he grabbed the sides of her slacks and yanked them down two inches to the top of her hips. He finished by stepping back, palms forward, framing her as if for a picture. “Not bad considering we have to work with. In fact, it surprisingly works.” He smiled, impressed with the results. “Is that a custom body, or did you model it off your own?”
“It’s…” She caught herself. “Never mind. I don’t have to answer that.” She smirked.
“No time for visual customization. Can you add an avocado or maybe three strawberries to your public HUD profile real quick?”
“Why?” She suddenly felt very confused about local signaling customs. “Why would I do that?”
“Just a hunch. You can thank me later.” Jafet grinned.
Serah crossed her arms defensively and then realized he was intentionally provoking her to get her to relax and look more natural.
He reached forward, uncrossed her arms, and put them back at her side. “Definitely don’t do that. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb. Now, smile and nod to everyone, especially the windows, and be sure to say ‘hello’ back if anyone greets you.” He pushed her ahead, following one step behind with Camilla at his side.
The alley was narrow and crowded, but movement was orderly as everyone kept to their right. Large windows lined the street, each with a colored motif, either from the lighting or drapery. Almost every window had at least one person standing behind it. Red and blue, Serah knew, indicated cisgender and transsexual presenters, respectively; Green, she was pretty sure, indicated syntelligence. Several windows included variants such as orange and purple, which she realized must be reserved for LiM, virtual only, or some other indication that the operator didn’t match the presentation. Otherwise, the lights were the only real visible difference. Glowing markers on the sidewalk around the window indicated privacy zones where conversation was only possible between people standing in the zone and people behind the windows.
She led Jafet and Camilla through the crowd, maneuvering past clusters of people with little effort. Everyone was happy, and she smiled and exchanged greetings with each person who offered until they reached a nondescript door bearing the words “La Chasse Club.” Serah’s heads-up display was directing her around the corner to what was most likely the main entrance, but Jafet and Camilla instead proceeded up five steps to a small landing and knocked. Serah assumed it was a private entrance, and that the door would only open for select individuals. This was confirmed when the door opened a few seconds later. Jafet gestured for the ladies to enter first.
The club was bathed in dim amber light, and a haze in the air limited visibility to approximately two meters, with everything beyond being either a silhouette or a light source on the far wall. Offensively loud, period-accurate music played over strategically placed speakers. Serah made a subtle gesture with her right hand, which turned the music down from her perspective, but not entirely off – as that would destroy the intent of the room’s designer. Jafet led her along the wall to a bar area with Camilla two steps behind now, already scouting the room. Without asking, a bartender placed three drinks on the bar before them. They each took one.
“What is this?” Serah asked, confused.
“Whatever you want it to be,” Jafet laughed. “You’re too used to the Root Realm. You’ve never actually done this before, have you?”
Serah shot him a warning glance but then realized he was right; she never had.
“Default is water,” he offered. Serah smirked and, to subvert his expectation, adjusted the contents to at least appear a cloudy blood red, even as she kept the flavor and effects as water. “Is your man in here?”
Serah took a sip from her glass and nodded toward the corner where the heads-up display had conveniently outlined a man sitting at a table talking to two other men. “That table. The bald one in the middle.”
“Okay then.” Jafet nodded and whispered something in Camilla’s ear. She smiled, slinked over to the table like a predatory cat, and began speaking to the group. Within 30 seconds, the other two men had politely excused themselves, and Camilla was cuddling up like a cat in Liam Fiscer’s lap as she gestured for Jafet and Serah to come over.
“So,” Fiscer said in a loud and commanding voice as he leaned forward over the table, “Your charming friend here says you would like to do some business with me, Miss Wyles. Something for your news agency then?”
Serah was momentarily taken aback by being recognized. The fingers on Fiscer’s right hand, resting on the table, moved ever so slightly, however, indicating that he was busily scanning through his personal interface, no doubt pulling up every bit of information he could about the three of them, which would currently be splashed all over his HUD where only he could see it.
“Yes, Mr. Fiscer,” Serah smiled as innocently as possible, “We’re sorry to disturb someone as important as you if you were on downtime.”
“Nonsense. I’m always working.” his face wore a practiced smile. “Just as I’m always happy to help a distinguished and lauded member of the press. And please, call me Skurv.” He smiled wickedly. “So, what can I do for you? Nanocam implant? Untraceable tracking device?” His eyebrow arched. “Though, in your case, it looks like an antique word processor might be more your style.”
“Just a bit of information, actually.”
The big man nodded. “I have extensive databases of my own as well as access to quite a few more, but nothing particularly rare or valuable. Why come to me specifically instead of a data broker or Darkphrame runner?”
“Information about one of your customers, actually,” Serah said with more self-confidence than she felt.
Skurv paused and regarded Serah with disappointment. “I would never betray the trust of my customers,” then, smiling, “even for someone as pretty as you.”
“Well, this customer is dead, so technically, you won’t be betraying anyone.”
Skurv paused. His expression turned sour. “All the more reason I shouldn’t get involved, I think.” His voice lowered to a more conversational level.
Serah straightened, already anticipating the response. “You don’t have to get involved, I assure you. You would just be sharing what you know with a member of the press investigating a story.”
“All the same, I think I will pass.”
Serah looked at Jafet, hoping he knew something about Skurv or local etiquette and could subtly cue her. His eyes met hers, remaining steadfastly expressionless. Desperate times, she eventually decided. “Is that so? You’re currently under house arrest, which permits you Phrame access, but you must know you’re being scrutinized and watched. I should think this complicates your situation, and you would welcome someone who is attempting to investigate the facts of the case and could potentially clear you of any involvement.”
Skurv smiled broadly, sizing her up as if suddenly impressed. “Do I appear concerned? Even if Locke Industries isn’t angling for a settlement. I’m not worth an expensive legal team or buying the right jury. In the meantime, this…” He gestured to the room around him. “This is barely an inconvenience. I’m a well-respected member of this club. Most of its employees are in my debt, and I have the complete files on everyone in this room, which is how I would know if a cop had muscled his way in, or if a member had sneaked a reporter in through the member’s entrance. Sure, in the Root Realm, they can confine me to my residence, prohibit travel, forbid me from associating with a certain element. However, they gave me access to the Phrame, simply because they believe deprivation produces resentment; pleasure produces compliance. Does this look like restriction to you? So, let’s drop the pretense that you are somehow saving or helping me, and maybe you come up with a better reason I should do you this favor.”
Something flickered in the corner of Serah’s vision. She turned to catch it. Seated at a table in the far corner of the room was the outline of a dark figure, obscured by the haze but obviously fixated on her. He had a particular glow around him, however, similar to the HUD indicator that highlighted Skurv in the crowd earlier. She felt the hairs on her arm stand up. She was only running the one trace on Skurv. There was no reason for a second person to be tagged this way. Serah subtly cued her interface to identify this new man, but it returned more of the strange, continually shifting gibberish of English and non-English characters. She was suddenly reminded of the lurker in the corner at Nine Stones and the eerie figure in her dream. She took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing heart.
Everyone at the table was staring at her, puzzled.
“I can pay you. Name your price.”
“Money?” Skurv snorted once in disgust, then gestured with one hand for her to continue. “Ask your questions first.”
“Serah pulled up the file picture of Halferne from Erik’s transmission.” Skurv’s expression went blank, though he didn’t appear surprised.
“The Doctor, yes,” he nodded. “That one was already dead when he came to me.”
“He died again later that night. I need to know what you remember. I know about the skullcap and the hard cred. I need to know anything else you know. Was he with anyone? Did he say where he was staying? What else did he purchase? Did he tell you why he needed these things? How did he pay you?” Serah’s attention was suddenly drawn to the corner again. The dark figure across the room had moved. The faulty HUD display now showed him sitting two tables closer, still alone, still watching her.
“You seem very desperate, Miss Wyles.” Skurv paused and looked from Serah to Jafet to Camilla. “I may be able to help you. I’m still not clear why I should.”
“I told you I can pay you,” Serah insisted. “You seem unconcerned about the outcome of your trial, but at the very least you’re going to have extensive legal fees and likely a settlement to pay off.”
He shrugged. “Come back when you have something … unique … to offer.”
His meaning was plain, but she pushed the thought out of her mind and decided to change tactics. “Fine. I can see you’re all safe and secure here in your virtual hideaway without a care in the world. I’m just a reporter working a story here, but even I managed to trace that skullcap to Tahmo Lain, which led me back here to you. As far as I can tell, you two are the only people who have spoken to Halferne since he arrived on Earth. Now, you’re probably not involved, but the police are probably pretty desperate to close the case by now. They probably won’t take the time to scour every antique shop in London looking for any likely suspect, find Thamo Lain, and connect him to you, but what if they did? Wouldn’t it be better for you if they saw you helping with the investigation? I may even be able to crack it and then return the favor by clearing your name.”
Skurv’s smile faded. “You can’t buy my help, so you decide to threaten me by going to the police and connecting me to a murder I had nothing to do with. You think this gives you leverage over me?” He gestured at something in the air directly in front of him that only he could see. “You’re an amateur. Moreover, you’re a slowbander; no neural jack.” His face lit up with sudden recognition. “That’s how you found the angle. You’re a skullcap user yourself. Pity. Those things really dampen the experience. I imagine you aren’t getting a quarter of the sensory immersion I am. Plus, you can’t just use a generic datajack.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “I bet you’ve got a wonderful old antique terminal back in your …” He paused and pretended to read. “… 14th-floor flat in Chelsea.”
Serah stiffened and took a sip of her drink to recover. Jafet’s eyes widened, trying to get her to stop.
Seeing he had her attention now, Skurv leaned back. “Crime has been on the increase around there lately, hasn’t it? I mean, did you remember to look your doors before you jacked in?”
Serah didn’t flinch at the threat, though her stomach was turning somersaults. “You know what I want. Name your price.”
“I don’t want anything except respect and obedience.” He placed a hand on Camilla’s inner thigh and smiled wickedly. “From all of you.”
Serah sat back, deflated. She glanced at Jafet, who arched his eyebrows and shook his head. He had no better ideas than she had. Skurv’s meaning was clear, and it was flattering. For a moment, she considered how badly she needed the information. She wasn’t certain she was capable of going through with something like that, though.
Jafet caught her discomfort immediately and tried to assure her with a smile. “Skurv, if I may. Surely, you understand the awkwardness of two co-workers performing a–”
“Darling,” Camilla said, shushing Jafet with a finger. She stroked Skurv’s cheek, leaned in, whispered something in his ear, then smiled at her husband. Skurv’s eyes lit up. He looked at Camilla, astonished, then Jafet, and finally turned back to Serah.
Serah started to protest to Camilla, having some idea what was going on, but the dark-haired woman smiled and shook her head, patting Serah’s leg reassuringly.
Skurv cleared his throat and nodded. “He came to me five days ago. He gave no name and would not say where he was from. I ran a recognition trace and instantly learned who he really was. This is standard practice for me. He asked for three things. The first was the skullcap, which you had already mentioned. He also wanted access codes for a military archive on Luna, code name Yama, which I supplied with no little difficulty, I might add. Finally, he was looking for an individual. He had a police report and a social services case number, but no name and address. He paid handsomely from an off-system account on Auria.”
Serah clandestinely made notes in her HUD, trying to capture the information as fast as Skurv was regurgitating it. He paused for a moment, waiting for her to catch up.
“And, before you ask, I was able to track down the person from even that scrap of information. It turned out to be a reporter at NPNA named Serah Wyles. So, you see, I’m hardly concerned about you putting the police on to me, when it seems you may be in this even deeper than I am, my dear.”[5]
She tried to conceal her shock. Remembering the price that came with it, she looked apologetically at Jafet and Camilla, who smiled, apparently not the least put out by paying her debt in this instance. She then looked for the mysterious figure who was watching her. Her HUD now placed him two tables away.
She nodded. “Fine, you win, sir, and I do appreciate your help. So, is your goon over there going to let me leave in peace now?” She tilted her head toward the dark figure in her HUD.
Skruv chuckled at her discomfort. “I assure you he’s not one of my goons.” He paused, staring at the man. The color drained from his face.
“Who is he, then?”
“I have no idea.” His eyebrows arched in panic. “I can access everything about every person in this room, but he’s … ” His voice trailed off. “Perhaps you should forgo politeness and use your emergency transit. I assure you, we won’t stand on etiquette.”
Serah nodded toward her friends with in gratitude, pulled up her interface, and set it for immediate transit back to her home construct. Instead of the familiar blue icon that would instantly transport her away, she saw an error message.
Interface unavailable at this time. Priority transfer in progress.
Her heart sank. “My interface is locked. It won’t let me exit. What the hell is a priority transfer?!”
“You can still use the transit booths,” Jafet offered.
“I would be careful,” Skurv said, “Your friend there just got up and is moving toward the member’s exit. He may know what you’re trying to do.” Serah watched as the dark figure crossed through the door and out of the club. Skurv shook his head. “That shouldn’t have worked. He’s not on file.”
“Where’s the public entrance?”
“It’s just down that hallway.” Skurv nodded in the opposite direction from where the figure had departed. “Perhaps next time.”
Serah smiled cordially and stood up. “Jafet, when I get out of here, where’s the nearest transport booth?”
Jafet thought for a moment. “Out the front doors, turn right, 100 meters to the corner.”
“I owe you big time for this,” she said hurriedly. Jafet smiled, waved her on, and walked as quickly out of the room as she could without looking suspicious.
Within 30 seconds, she was down the hall, across the lobby, out the door, and halfway down the block. Ahead, she could barely make out the familiar indicators labeling a transit booth. She turned and looked behind her for any sign she was being followed. Her worst fears were confirmed as she saw the dark figure’s flickering HUD indicator and corrupt identifier text in the crowd behind her. He was rushing through the crowd. She still could not make out any of his features, and were it not for the apparent malfunctions, she wouldn’t have seen him at all.
She ran, not looking back to see if her pursuer had done the same. When she reached the transit booth, she elbowed her way past two large men and physically shoved a young woman out of the way who was about to enter. “Sorry, it’s an emergency,” she blurted out, pulling up the directory. She knew she couldn’t go back to her home construct. It would be too easy to trace her. There wasn’t time to scan for a destination, and in all the confusion, she hadn’t yet considered where she could run to.
The word “Veritas” crept into her mind, and suddenly she knew. With a gesture, she discarded the directory, pulled up the transport prompt, and entered one of only four destination codes she had committed to memory.
De Wallen vanished in a haze of blue light.
© 2022 Darrin Snider. All Rights Reserved.
