Tea From an Empty Cup (12 page)

‘
What identity?
’ Yuki demanded, all but screaming. ‘His name and appearance or his on-line character?’

‘One is the same as the other, on-line,’ replied the cherub, in a kindly voice.

‘But Tomoyuki Iguchi is his
real
name, not his on-line name.’

The head tilted to one side and winked cutely at her. ‘On-line names
are
real names. On-line.’

‘I know, but –’ Yuki paused and took a break. ‘Tomoyuki Iguchi was the
off-line
name of the person who called himself Tomoyuki Iguchi
on-line
. But he must also have had an on-line identity, another identity besides Tomoyuki Iguchi. What was it?’

The head tilted to the other side. ‘There’s no cross-referencing between any real and/or on-line name and any other real and/or on-line name.’

‘Then how do you prevent duplications?’

‘Duplications of what?’ the head asked her, looking honestly puzzled.

‘Appearances. Names. On-line identities.’

The cherub’s eyes twinkled. ‘There is none.’

Yuki hesitated. There was never any percentage in getting mad at a subroutine. ‘No, that can’t be right,’ she said after a long moment of not screaming. ‘There has to be some duplication going on. There is in real life.’

‘There is none in
any
life,’ the cherub announced with obvious joy. ‘There are always at least minute differences that distinguish one similar thing from another similar thing. They might not be immediately perceptible, but they are there.’

‘Are you trying to tell me it’s impossible for someone in here to duplicate someone else’s appearance, even if you copied every little detail?’

‘I am not trying. I
did
tell you.’

She considered yanking the cherub’s wings, lack of percentages notwithstanding. ‘What if I duplicated –
exactly
– this appearance, all the way down to the tiniest detail? What would be the difference between one and the other?’

‘Duration,’ the cherub said promptly.

‘Duration?’ Yuki echoed.

‘How long. Age. How old. Period in time, which is marked very precisely here. Billing, you know.’

‘Right,’ Yuki said, more to herself. ‘God forbid that someone gets away with a free half-second.’

‘A lot can happen in half a second,’ said the cherub, managing to look wise as well as cute now.

‘Is that so?’ Yuki sighed. ‘How do I find out someone’s duration?’

‘Ask that person.’

‘And if the person won’t tell me? Or lies about it?’

The cherub’s face puckered sorrowfully. Yuki could even see tears welling in the bright eyes. ‘Then you won’t know. Privacy in an unprivate world is a precious commodity.’

‘Then how do you know who to bill and how much?’ Yuki demanded. ‘Tell me
that
.’

‘I don’t know,’ the cherub said, happy again.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t have to. I’m not the billing function.’

Yuki closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You’re a big help.’

‘Aw. Thank you.’ The cherub kissed the air between them and sent a small cluster of tiny red hearts at her. They disintegrated around her head in a silent explosion of sparkles as the cherub vanished. Cutesy help files; Yuki wondered whose idea
that
had been.

She looked down at the map again. What little information there was began and ended in post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty. Maybe that was too simple-minded, but she would try it anyway. Maybe flashing Tom’s face around his last known location would stir something up. Maybe even raise the dead.

POST-APOCALYPTIC NOO YAWK SITTY

ENTRY POINT

Bureau of Tourism

Yuki looked from the sign to the map and back to the sign. Pressing the destination on the map should have delivered her right into post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty; instead, she was standing in a high-ceilinged hallway that dead-ended at this sign in front of her, and disappeared into indefinite shadows behind her.

‘You coming in?’ asked a voice that managed to sound both bored and impatient at the same time.

Yuki frowned at the sign, unsure if that was what was speaking to her. ‘I thought I was already in.’

‘You will be as soon as you complete the entry procedure,’ the voice said. It might have been female or male; like the vocalizer on her email service, it was indeterminate.

‘Isn’t it absurd for someplace that’s supposed to be post-Apocalyptic to have a tourist bureau?’

‘It’s absurd for someplace that’s supposed to be post-Apocalyptic to exist in a medium as technological and structured as Artificial Reality. You can stand there and talk philosophy and popular culture all day – I was developed by a frustrated philosopher and I’ve got conversation forever. But it’s all billable time, so think it over. How important is it for you to be right?’

‘Stop that and let me in,’ Yuki said, stung. Immediately, she was standing in an office, facing an androgyne dressed in something that suggested a collision between a military uniform and a dance costume from the Middle East. Yuki groaned.

‘Are you in pain?’ asked the androgyne, not pretending concern.

‘Ten million years of evolution and technology and the best anyone can come up with in artificial reality – where anything is possible – is a standard office situation.’

‘Oh, you’re in aesthetic pain.’ The androgyne sounded even more bored.

‘I just don’t think it’s right to charge for on-line time spent standing in an office. You don’t have to be in artificial reality to stand in some office.’

‘Indications were that you needed orientation.’ The androgyne looked heavenward and sighed. ‘Exhaustive studies have proven conclusively that orientation is best accomplished in very familiar and mundane surroundings that don’t distract from the essential information to be imparted.’

‘Ten million years of evolution and technology and we haven’t figured out a better way to convey essential information,’ said Yuki in disgust.

‘Agreed. I’m taking suggestions for something better. You first.’ The androgyne waited a beat. ‘Well, maybe another time. Here’s your map, here’s your catalog, here’s some icons to put in your catalog and get you started. You might want to take some time to look over all of that material. Orientation inventory is billed at a lower rate.’

‘Now I remember what I always hated most about AR,’ said Yuki, trying to hold on to items she couldn’t quite see clearly. ‘Every other word out of anyone’s mouth has something to do with billing rates.’

‘I didn’t realize
you
were here on a scholarship from a sugar daddy.’

Yuki had started to turn away with her vague bundles; now she turned back, frowning. ‘Um, exactly how
is
my time being billed?’

‘I don’t know. That’s not orientation,’ said the androgyne, leaning back in the chair with a rattle of beads. All the beads seemed to be cycling through a series of colors, except none were running the same series at the same rate. Yuki felt her eyes crossing and wondered why she hadn’t noticed this before. Or had all that color changing started at just that moment? She thought of Joy Flower.

The androgyne yawned noisily. ‘Next case.’

‘Wait. I mean, is this my account, or is someone else responsible financially?’

‘Don’t know.’

Yuki’s eyes were starting to hurt. ‘You don’t know who’s paying?’

‘Don’t you? Somebody must be, because you’re here, but that’s all I know. That’s all I have to know. Now, move over to a privacy area if you’re going to check your inventory, and if you’re not, just go.’

‘Aren’t you going to wish me a pleasant session or something?’

The androgyne raised gold-threaded eyebrows in mild surprise. ‘Why should I?’

‘So much for customer service,’ Yuki said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to make me happy so I’ll want to come back?’

‘You already want to come back. Everyone wants to come back. Everyone wants this, everyone needs it. Everyone’s happy.’ The androgyne shrugged.

‘A customer service module probably wouldn’t take up any more space than your boredom program,’ Yuki said. ‘And why are you an androgyne? Isn’t that kind of a stupid stereotype, being camped-up and bored?’

‘It would be as much a stereotype as a man or a woman. Did you want the suggestion box? Do away with stereotyping minor administration employees and clerks in dead-brain jobs? I’ve got several of those in the suggestion box to be forwarded.’ The androgyne held up a shoe box marked
Suggestions
. ‘They’re all from minor administrators and clerks in dead-brain jobs. What do
you
do for a living?’

Yuki shifted uneasily. ‘I’m an assistant.’

Apparently that wasn’t a trigger word. The androgyne put the box on the desk between them. ‘I’ll leave that there, in case you feel inspired before you exit. Anything else?’

‘No, uh –’ Yuki turned around, unsure of the direction she should take.

‘Follow the blue line on the floor,’ said the androgyne through a yawn. ‘It’ll take you to the nearest available privacy area.’

‘I still think your boredom program is offensive.’

‘It’s not a program. You think this is bad, you ought to see the show on low-speed access.’

Yuki had started to walk away; now she turned, intending to ask the androgyne what that last was supposed to mean and saw that somehow, a door had materialized between them.
Exit Only!
said the raised letters in the imitation wood.
To reenter, log out and log in again
. Below that, in smaller letters:
Not for use as an information source or help file. Users are directed to consult help files in the appropriate handbook. Handbooks are available for an extra charge, plus a surcharge for indefinite reservation and custom annotation
.

Yuki shrugged inwardly and followed the blue line on the floor until it dead-ended at a plain white empty cubicle with a built-in desk and chair. As soon as she sat down, an ad came up on the desktop advising her that she could reserve the same privacy area for repeated visits at a rate less than half of what it would cost her to reserve an address in a moderately popular AR city. Yuki leaned over and, without letting go of her items, swiped at the ad with one hand to erase it.

The map was a standard issue as far as she could tell. She spread it out on the desk and surveyed the overview of post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty. Major landmarks and exits were noted, along with trauma treatment sites – legend had it that the Sitty was not for the squeamish, though she suspected this was more hype than help – but there were a number of vague, clouded areas on the map.
Because
, said the sell-line running along the bottom,
you don’t want us to tell you
EVERYTHING,
do you!

Don’t I just
. She ran a finger over the settings icon in the bottom right-hand corner. There it was – high-speed access. She puzzled over it. She’d never heard of high-speed access. Multiple levels of access, yes, but not multiple speeds. What if she tried to change the setting?

But that particular setting wasn’t accessible, she found. Somehow it had been bundled into her account as a fixed feature.

She turned her attention to the route-planner and tried to program it for Tomoyuki Iguchi’s previous route. There was a long pause, and then the same notation came up, about Tom’s transfer of on-line identity and decease.

‘So
what
,’ she growled at the map. ‘He’s deceased online so I can’t follow the previous route taken by this user-name?’ She stabbed the word
route
with one finger and an explanation popped up out of the map to hang in the air before her at eye level.

Deceased routing not saved; information erased
.

Yuki poked
deceased
. ‘Where did he become deceased? You should be able to tell me that.’

The explanation box morphed into an arrow and touched the map on the shoreline on the west side of the Sitty.

‘Okay. That’s where I want to go. First destination, select.’

A small animation of a sausage rotating over a flame blossomed on the spot.
Hot Link
. Yuki rolled her eyes. Another thing she had not liked much about artificial reality was the penchant for terrible puns. She started to fold the map; it emitted a sharp buzzing noise and she opened it up again. A word balloon popped up and hung over the map for a few moments.
REMINDER!! Only THREE Hot Links permitted PER SESSION!!

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she muttered, folding the map. God forbid anyone should use billable time too efficiently to run up a big tab. Yuki examined the catalog and the icons. One was a ticket of admission to something, probably a club. The words
Admit One: ALL
Hours had been done as a flashing multi-colored neon tubing on a plastic rectangle the size of the real Waxx24 admittance cards that Ash collected with regularity.

There were also two circular pieces slightly larger than the palm of her hand. She knew those were tokens for some conveyance – flying submarine, underground plane, or even a warp booth, if she could find the right kind. One token to go on and one to return, saving much billable time, of course. Very considerate. She tucked those and the club ticket into the catalog. The other three items were museum-quality reproductions of old-style lottery tickets – you asked a question and then scraped off a colored surface material to reveal the answer. You might get a right answer, a cryptic hint, a dunno, or the coveted one-in-a-trillion jackpot of all questions answered for free.

She let them all fall into the icon catalog, which she zipped back into the vest pocket. Maybe she would even think quickly enough to use some of them.

That’s
really
why you don’t like AR
, isn’t it – because you can’t usually think fast enough to get a decent run out of it.

She tried to shove the thought away. AR was for people who were too scared to take chances in real life, and anyone with any sense knew
that
. AR was for people like Tom Iguchi, who would rather pursue a nonexistent Grail through an imaginary world than try to sustain a real life in a real place, where things sometimes took years to develop rather than nanoseconds, and where you couldn’t save your place, rewind, and re-do a sequence when you goofed up.