Chapter 2

I've always considered myself an informed shopper. So, I searched around and found there were actually two interactive constructs of the novel available. U-t/here, pronounced "you theer," had published theirs first. The Eye-mage version was newer, as recent as two real-time months. Most of the reviewers said the Eye-mage version was better. To get an accurate picture, though, I always say you have to go deeper than star ratings. You need to know why reviewers don't like something, and then decide for yourself if those reasons matter to you. In this case what it boiled down to was not so much the extra bells and whistles as it was something that I had suspected right away. Most of the reviewers didn't like U-t/here as a matter of principle.

U-t/here is the mega corporation with the corner on the whole telepresence industry. They've even got their own designer AI, named B.O.B. I mean, they are big. They started with military contracts which gave them the edge on really influencing ground floor development of the New Digital World Order. Following that, they carved out a sizeable niche for themselves in the consumer arena when they began making corporeal waldoes available to the public. The technology since then has come a long way, but they somehow managed to ride the wave and stay on the top all the way.

Everyone uses U-t/here technology nowadays. In fact, it was a probably a U-t/here rental spider my insurance adjuster used to visit the bomb crater which was once my front porch. I imagine he sat down in his office in Miami, thirteen hundred miles away, strapped on tactile gear, and then connected himself into a local waldo here. Most of the rental units are spider-like, about two feet tall with compartments in their abdomen for storage. They come equipped with popular kits for different purposes, or you can order your own custom kit if you don't find one in the area with what you need. But with as much terrorist activity and explosions that go on in today's world, it probably wasn't difficult to locate a waldo with their right tools onboard. My insurance adjuster probably analyzed explosives residue and what little DNA there was left of me for verification purposes. And when he was finished creeping around on polycarbonate tentacles, taking pictures of everything, he just removed his tactile gear, turned virtual controls back over to the U-t/here virtual bots, and was instantly back in his office in Florida.

If I had pressed the issue, I probably could have been doing my time right now in a real world waldo instead of here in virtual candyland, but supposedly the EPA says it isn't good for the soul to be crammed into a non human body for more than a couple of days at a time. Consequently, insurance companies are reluctant to outfit claimants in waldoes. I've got news for the EPA. They don't know jack russell about the soul or they wouldn't let clinics and hospitals keep people locked up in cheapskate corners of the cyberverse. But the point is, there are waldoes everywhere, even on Jupiter's moons. It's a simple fact of life. And as much as everyone loves to bad mouth the evil mega corporation, it is just too handy to use their products.

I decided to go with the U-t/here construct for two reasons. First, yeah, it's big and clunky by nature, but that also meant the characterization would be more developed. B.O.B. has a reputation for his expansive realism. The second thing is, there's already a large number of fans using that version, and along with it, a host of patches and add-ons created by the diy community available for free download. In other words, the novel had already been hacked. And that meant, with a bit of judicious tweaking, I could probably do just about anything in it.

I wanted my own hard copy of the novel to practice with, so I went ahead and ordered it while I was still on ice, not bothering with expedited shipping. By the time they had me in my new body and done with psychical and physical therapies—which took a few real days, but compared with the years in virtual was a breeze—the package was waiting for me at the mail box when I got home.

I carried it up the steps of my newly refurbished front porch, holding it as far away as my short arms would allow, handling the brown wrapping paper like it was going to grow teeth and eat me. I set it on the kitchen island, and wondered if opening the mail would ever hold the same anticipation for me that it used to. Funny how a little thing like exploding can ruin your entire life. Not, mind you, that I could remember the event first hand, but from the details I'd gleaned from my friend's social media posts, the imagery of the experience had already branded its black mark on my heart.

I finally got the package open and held the construct up to the light. It was a transparent cubic-rectangle of crystalline polymer, roughly the size of a domino, but a little more blocky like a pack of c'jettes. Totally indestructible. In the light, this one had a bluish tint and the title of the novel scrolling around in bright red lettering just beneath the surface. Basically, it was a cubic version of the fishing float. Simply holding the thing made me draw a breath. Right now, in my stubby fingers, I was actually holding a complete world—a perfectly congealed universe, just waiting for the right electromagnetic impulse to permeate and animate every one of its internal programs with life. Ponyboy was in there, the entire timeline of his life freeze-dried in oblivion. He slept a dreamless sleep and only I could awaken him. Or, I suppose, anyone else with a c-reader.

I wiped my palms on my pants and set the little brick on the table, took a few deep breaths, and then checked the time. It was five thirty. I thought, I really should call the kids, let them know their dad is back. On the other hand, I wasn't looking forward to having them see me. Jillian knew all about my little age mistake, but I didn't know if she'd remembered to warn the others. I could hear the echoing thunder of every lecture I'd given my son to pay attention. There was a storm a brewing.

I sighed and forced my gaze to wander around the house. I hadn't even been here a full five minutes, hadn't even done a walk-through of the old place. From where I was standing it all looked about the same as when I'd left. The auto functions had taken care of everything while I was away, swept up any dust and watered the plants. I stood where I was, unwilling to move. I'd been waiting so long to be back in my new body and yet now I couldn't stop thinking about the construct. Here I was, already going to do this.

I took a deep breath, picked up the construct and stuck it in the slot of my new c-reader which I'd bought that morning at the clinic bookstore. The reader is a little box with a wireless transmitter for sending signals directly into the net receptors of my new brain. In my new body I shouldn't have to wear tactile gear ever again, and if the doctors are right, the virus built implants will grow and develop with me as my body ages over the course of my next lifetime.

I snapped the cover of the c-reader shut and instantly felt this weird twisty thing happen. It was trippy, like I had just turned ninety degrees inside myself for a second. The kitchen took on an amber glow and there was a pungent hint of limes. Everything seemed slightly distorted. I peered down, and my feet were virtually floating an inch or two above the floor, although when I stamped down I could still feel the solidity of reality beneath me.

The c-reader interface selected its own random guide from the construct to walk me through initialization. I blinked in awe as a weathered door materialized in my kitchen near the sink. It opened, and out stepped this short middle aged guy with wide hips and horn-rimmed glasses. I pegged him right away as the fat guy who would eventually ride with Ponyboy in the ambulance after the fire. Sure enough, Jerry Wood introduced himself and led me through a series of questions, asking me to choose how I wanted to experience the novel. I realized I hadn't prepared myself for all the questions, so I just began electing choices at random. He must have noticed what I was up to because I caught a look of disapproval in his eyes, but I blew it off. What did he know? He was just a construct character. As soon as I nodded the last okay I felt that twisting sensation again and then I was spiraling away. The kitchen was long gone.

I was standing on a sidewalk outside an old movie theatre. Birds chirped. Old cars in shining new paint drove by, spouting lazy chuffs of carbon monoxide. I hadn't smelled burning gasoline in ages. It smelled sweeter somehow than I remembered. There was a gaggle of school girls in floral print dresses on the opposite corner eating ice cream from cones and chattering happily. No one seemed to be in any particular hurry.

Tulsa, 1966. I inhaled the cool September air and smiled. It seemed so real. I almost forgot why I had come and might have stepped off the sidewalk, heading for the ice cream shop, but...

…then I saw him.

Ponyboy was just coming out the doors of the theatre. I recognized him immediately, but up close for the first time his looks still surprised me. For one thing, his hair wasn't as greasy as I'd expected. I mean, he calls himself a greaser and all, but that didn't mean every greaser slicked his hair back. The AI also had done a good job of making him look a lot like C. Thomas Howell, probably so that fans of the movie version wouldn't be too disappointed, but also because Howell really did a good portrayal of someone from that place and time. This Ponyboy's head wasn't quite so big as Howell's though. He was small but well built, and to me he looked like a kid who had yet to hit his true growth potential. I liked him right away.

He stood there in front of me, blinking and squinting in the bright sunlight for a moment. I couldn't tell if he had noticed me or not, so I raised my hand to say hi. Ponyboy must not have seen me. He just turned and started walking down the sidewalk, sort of looking at the clouds as he went.

I followed at a safe distance, trying to remember the map I'd downloaded during my research. I could have summoned it up on a side display but didn't want to ruin first impressions. From memory, the construct city layout was basically the same as a real map of Tulsa, 1966, only turned ninety degrees off of real north, and with a few differences in names of streets and business establishments where Hinton had taken artistic license.

From what I could remember from my study of the forums, we were only about eight blocks from his house. In the novel, Ponyboy says he had "a long walk home," but that's in relative terms. I'd learned enough to know that when an AI builds a construct, the protagonist's subjective notions must be transformed into concrete terms. If you chose to experience the construct the way I was doing this first time, the downside is you can't help getting your own completely subjective impressions of the experience and you won't necessarily empathize with the main character. To combat this, the forums say, you have to keep trying to put yourself in the protagonist's shoes, try to understand him the old fashioned way.

I digested this as I followed him. When I was fourteen in my first lifetime my range was probably less limited than Ponyboy's. I didn't worry, in the mid nineteen-eighties in northern Idaho, for example, about getting jumped by a gang of socs. Plus, I had a BMX bike back then, so I naturally ranged two or three miles in radius from my home. Eight blocks for a lone greaser in the 60's was probably a good long trek. AI's think of everything.

Ponyboy was up ahead, moving along at a brisk pace and I started wishing I could be in his head. I should have at least selected the narration option, then I would have been better able to stick with the storyline. As it was, I kept finding myself gawking around at the scenery. The trouble with going back in time like this is the overwhelming culture shock. Any purpose you intended beforehand just fuzzes right out. I kept wanting to stop and look in all the windows of the shops we were passing. When we got into the residentials I wished I could slow down and snoop around in some of the yards and garages, but Ponyboy kept going.

The two of us covered about five blocks and I think I noticed the red Corvair even before he did. When he did spot it I had to run just to keep up with him. We were only a block from where the forum said his house was located when I managed to catch up with him. I could see the perspiration beading and running down his cheeks. When the Corvair finally pulled up beside us, I think I got as nervous as he was. I noticed Ponyboy's eyes darting around on the ground and remembered he was probably looking for a stick or pop bottle to use as a defensive weapon or a bluff.

I saw a rock that would just about fit into my twelve year old fist but when I tried to pick it up I got a great big surprise. It wouldn't move. Here, I'd been zipping around like Superman for the equivalent of four years, leaping tall buildings in virtual as a ghost, but all of a sudden I couldn't even lift a little rock off the ground. I strained with all my might but it would not budge.

That's when the realization struck me, I must have selected the phantom reader option. That meant I couldn't do anything but observe. Ponyboy might get beaten to death this time in the story and I would have to stand there and watch. The thought of it got me sweating and I had to take a few deep breaths and remind myself it was impossible. The storyline can't change like that, not without goofing up everything. If you read it the old fashioned way, in text, things are always going to happen exactly the same way every time, although you might have different thoughts each time or reactions because you know what to expect after the first read. Constructs are no different, unless you're using a heavy interactive scheme, which I wasn't.

The knowledge didn't help to calm me. I stood there trembling as those five Socs surrounded him, and I thought about how much it sucked to be me. I know that sounds ego centric. After all, it was Ponyboy about to get schooled, not me. But ego centrism is the whole point of a novel, right? I mean, everyone loves Ponyboy because Ponyboy is everyone. When you read the Outsiders you are you, but you are also Ponyboy. You live the entire story through his eyes. Couple this with the fact that I hate violence, especially when my friends are involved and that I couldn't do anything to help him, and you'll understand why I started screaming when the switchblade came out.

"Stop it, stop it! Leave him alone!"

No one paid me any attention. I ran in and pounded at their heads with my little knuckles. I kicked and punched, clawed and even bit someone's ear. They went right on holding him down and preparing him for their special "greaser haircut." Not only could I not hurt them but they didn't even know I was there. Ponyboy lay still, sucking air through his nostrils. His lips were so tightly clamped they looked like pale formations of death, but his eyes were wide and flickering.

Suddenly he opened his mouth and began screaming, "Darry! Soda! Anybody!"

"Shut him up!" someone shouted. They belted him in the gut and someone else started stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth.

I put my hands in my hair and closed my eyes. It was more than I could take. On an impulse, I reached for the virtual escape and punched it. Just before I spiraled out of there I thought I heard shouts from background voices and the sound of people running towards us, but I was already gone. I came twisting back into the kitchen and found my body collapsed on the floor, propped against the refrigerator. There was something wet on the side of my face. I'd either been crying or making drool.

It had seemed so real, I could still hear the venom in those Socs' throats and the click of that switchblade when it opened. I almost got sick right there on the floor, but managed to hold it in. I also had to resist the urge to fly back into the construct, arming up with better options, and save Ponyboy. As it was, it took me twenty minutes before I was calm enough to wrap my thoughts around my own emotional reaction.

First, however, I had to pull myself off the floor. I managed to query the kitchen's autoserve for a mug of hot chocolate and then carried it into the living room where I could think more rationally. In there, I surprised myself by flopping down in an old jelly bag instead of my favorite LaZboy. I scooched it over close to the fireplace, punched up a crackling blaze with my new cyberkinesis power, and sat staring into the flames. The memory of the thing I'd just witnessed began winding down, turning over in my mind nice and slow like roast duck, until I could finally unhook the claws of my emotions from it.

After about ten minutes, the whole experience spread out in two dimensional form, like a long roll of paper. Fully unwound, I stood back and looked at it all objectively, beginning to end. I don't say this to brag, just to explain. You develop little disciplines of the mind like this as you mature. You find a way to get outside yourself and look down on the whole thing like you're not a part of it, but above it, even though you can see yourself right down there in the middle of it. However way you learn to do this, it's a useful trick that you don't ever want to forget.

Now, me, I had just seen Ponyboy getting rough handled by some upper-class scumbags. My seventy-four years told me it was all fiction, even though it felt real enough at the time, but my preadolescent body had no such inhibitions. It reacted with such anxiety and nerves that I hadn't been able to control myself. Even now I could still feel the jitters from the adrenaline ebbing away in my system.

Well, I still had some growing up to do in this new body, that much was plain. I was just going to have to be ready for my emotions the next time they came. It's your thoughts and how you look at things that determine how you feel about something. Thoughts and values always lead feelings. That's what I told myself.

I stood up, slurping down the remainder of the hot chocolate, then fed the empty mug into a dish receptacle on my way past the kitchen. It was time for a tour of the house. I left the construct reader lying on the table, but had to use all my will power not to go back to it right away. By the time I reached the master bedroom, I realized how tired I was and ended up collapsing into bed for the rest of the night. Old people sure like their beds stiff and humpy. I took a moment to relax the settings on the bed and then drifted off to sleep.