She got comfortable in the chair and waited for the neck of the suit to trope upward and make contact with the headmount leads.
As soon as the eyescreen ht up, her entire body went limp in the chair. It was reflexive now, so much so that she was sometimes a bit nervous that any sudden bright light might cause her to collapse. So far, that wasn’t the case. Perhaps she was safely keyed to the eyescreen frequency.
She waited through the usual sign-on/log-in messages, brief news, traffic advisories—as always, post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty had a waiting list, Club Hong Kong was adding a surcharge for perceiving groups larger than one thousand under one roof, and the Swedish government was handing out virtual pamphlets urging patrons to remember that there was more to their portion of Scandinavia than virtual sex changes. The Virtual Surgery Enthusiasts were countering with their own pamphlet, a manifesto concerning the right to experience any and all virtual sensation without governmental interference. Another busy day in VR; her contact counter said the concentration of local presences was averaging one hundred and ten per perceptible room-area.
She kept herself in semi-inactive mode while the headmount accessed the information the pale man had given her about his wife. While she waited for her resources to locate the woman, Calgary took a walk along Mainline, something she hadn’t done recently. There were entrances to a number of new areas, although a lot of them seemed to be shopping malls disguised as experiences. Popcult Watch was right, she thought, disheartened; they were in another whatever-it-is-get-rich-off-it phase. She made a mental note to check the projections on how long this stretch of brainless profiteering was supposed to last.
Her locator chime went off just as she stepped away from another exorcise-your-hate theme park; to her relief, the pale man’s wife wasn’t in post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty, or any of the other overly popular sites. According to the locator, the woman was currently active in an area called Deeper Penetration. She had never heard of it, but the name seemed to say it all. Calgary gave her virtual head a virtual shake. The things I don’t really do to make a living.
The waiting room reeked of tasteful affluence; the decor was so elegant as to border on imperceptible. Popcult Watch called it Glaring Subtlety. Calgary looked at the receptionist in her peripheral vision, which was the only way she could see the person. It was an automata, of course, but Calgary always preferred to see whoever she was interacting with, real or not. “What do you mean, VR parlor?” she said suspiciously.
“Deeper Penetration is a VR parlor,” said the receptionist, seemingly from the bottom of an infinite well of patience and courtesy. “For a quite-reasonable fee, you may enter a cubicle and enjoy the use of a hotsuit for whatever period of time you choose—”
“I know how VR works,” Calgary said. “We’re in VR right now.”
“That is the tenet of several otherwise differing theologies,” the receptionist said smoothly. “However, my current employment precludes my being able to comment either way on any religious or political belief held by any of our clients or potential clients. Can I quote you a price or answer any other questions having directly to do with Deeper Penetration?”
“Yeah,” Calgary said. “Yeah, you can answer a question for me. How are you getting away with this?”
The receptionist’s radiant smile was quite distinct, even sideways. It lit up the whole room or area, or whatever this was. “How does anyone get away with anything?”
Calgary pulled a virtual photo out of her virtual pocket and stuck it under the receptionist’s nose. “My resources say this woman is currently in your establishment. Is that true?”
“I can’t tell you that. That would be a violation of client confidentiality—”
“But this isn’t real, goddamit—”
“However, if you’d like to make a contribution to our Orphaned and Widowed Homeless Fund, so that we can bring the joy of the virtual experience to those who cannot afford the luxury of hotsuit-in-a-tube—”
Calgary sighed and found her virtual wallet. No matter how baroque or Byzantine human behavior ever became, it would always come down to this: bribing the case on the door. Whoever was behind it was fairly smart—automata couldn’t be prosecuted for taking bribes. Her currency twinkled briefly and vanished; the receptionist grew a little more visible to the direct gaze. “Well?” Calgary said.
The receptionist handed her a squeeze-tube; Calgary saw it was the brand of cool minty gel she liked. “Penetrate Deeper and see what you find.”
Ridiculous. She stalked through a maze of cubicles, most of them occupied in the same way they would have been occupied had she visited a real parlor out in the world—people in VR headmounts, reclining in comfortable chairs, enjoying and/or enduring their own particular brand of entertainment. Time to bypass experience in favor of efficiency—she used her locator, re-set to the specifications the pale man had given her. If his wife was having a virtual affair, she had chosen unique surroundings to conduct it in.
It took awhile, but Calgary finally found her. She was wearing a head-mount and reclining in a comfortable chair. There was a hand-lettered sign attached to the front of her headmount. Looking for me? Penetrate deeper and see what you find.
What she found was a cubicle with a comfortable chair and a headmount; fins and chrome. Time to walk, she thought, but she found herself applying the gel to her usual pulse-points—her virtual clothes had done her the favor of evaporating on their own—and allowing the tropisms to work. It certainly felt authentic, but then half the battle of sensation delivery was hitting familiar associations so that a person’s mind did most of the work. She found herself lost in the feel of the suit covering her skin, drying, testing the nanos.
She wanted to pause and think about what she was doing, but apparently sense-surrender left reflex too strong to counter; almost before she realized it, she had the headmount on and she was settling into the chair.
The eyescreen lit up; muscles collapsed into a resting state. She waited through the usual sign-on/log-in messages, brief news, traffic advisories—as always, post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty had a waiting list, Club Hong Kong was adding a surcharge for perceiving groups larger than one thousand under one roof, -and the Swedish government was handing out virtual pamphlets urging patrons to remember that there was more to their portion of Scandinavia than virtual sex changes. The Virtual Surgery Enthusiasts were countering with their own pamphlet, a manifesto concerning the right to experience any and all virtual sensation without governmental interference. Another busy day in VR; her contact counter said the concentration of local presences was averaging one hundred and ten per perceptible room-area.
Déjà-vu was followed by vertigo as the Mainline expanded before her. There were entrances to a number of new areas, although a lot of them seemed to be shopping malls disguised as experiences. Popcult Watch was right, she thought, disheartened; they were in another whatever-it-is-get-rich-off-it phase. She made a mental note to check the projections on how long this stretch of brainless profiteering was supposed to last.
Her locator chime went off just as she stepped away from another exorcise-your-hate theme park; to her relief, the pale man’s wife wasn’t in post-Apocalyptic Noo Yawk Sitty, or any of the other overly popular sites. According to the locator, it was called Deeper Penetration.
“Time out,” she growled; immediately, she felt her body’s position in the chair, all sensation delivery suspended, the scene on the eyescreen frozen. “God,” she breathed and triggered the telephone function with a hard glance at the icon.