From: rauser@fraser.sfu.ca (Richard John Rauser)
Subject: Cybersex
Date: 17 Jun 92 00:00:15 GMT






                       Cybersex






a story by Rick J. Rauser
Copyright 1992 by RJ Rauser and WNI

a Who Needs Isabella Publication






      "I don't want your photograph
       I don't need your photograph
       All I've got is a photograph
       It's not enough."
                  -Def Leppard




      I jacked into the matrix at 2:04 pm, and by 5:17 pm I located
the Guinevere file. I studied the asiles for activity but saw nothing
so I called up the keypad and entered the security code. The door appeared,
opened, and I went inside, hitting the command to vanish the keypad as I did.
      "How's my baby?" I thought outloud as I crossed over to the brain file.
I opened it up and studied the entries thus far. John Lennon...like.
Gary Hart...dislike. Watermelon...like. Potatoes...dislike (except for
Potatoe Chips...like, I amended. I saved the change and scrolled the list
forward).
      I studied and adjusted for two more hours realtime, then added twelve
 more entries, being careful to adapt them the personality construct I
had designed.
      I sealed the brain file and floated back to the VR organic file.
I had set it on autogrowth and saw that it was coming along nicely.
      I blew a cybernetic kiss and blinked out of Guinevere. I sealed the
file and added two more security locks, faded them out, then started back
for the matrix exit.
      I left the matrix at 11:34 pm.
      As my consciousness returned I reeled back in my chair and removed
the electrodes from my temples. My face was covered in sweat and I brushed
it aside and reached for the coffee I had waiting in a thermal mug. I pulled
off the lid and sipped it, my hands trembling. If only it didn't take so
*long*, such an enormous energy drain, such horrible physical effort.
But Guinevere was worth it. She *would* work.
       After I calmed down I left the terminal and took a hot shower, then
turned on the TV and watched Jay Leno. I looked out the window at the
busy city around me which never slept. I felt such horrible loneliness
but knew it wouldn't last for long.
       Later I slept and saw visions of the desert and Guinevere standing
beside me. And flies, so many flies. I swatted at them and tried to stay
asleep. I needed my rest.

      When I woke up I pulled out my journal and wrote, "What will
cybersex be like? Will it feel as good as I want it to? Will it fill me
up?" I closed the journal and went back to sleep. I always write down
the first thing that comes into my mind when I wake up and that's what
it was that time.

      Everyone gave me dirty looks at the office and Louis and this big
fat woman whose name I didn't know were talking and saying nasty things
about me behind my back. I tried to ignore them and studied my terminal
but it was hard. I ate at my usual table in the cafeteria and had my
usual lunch: warm milk, jello, and a cold, slightly stale scrambled
egg. My stomach burped with gas. I left the cafe because everyone was
talking about me again.

      I went down to the VR terminals at six o'clock and jacked in.
I found Guinevere after bypassing a randomly wandering security cipher.
I hit the new code and vanished the keypad and went in to Guinevere.
I worked on her for another half-hour. The construct was coming along nicely
for the body, especially the torso, which was developing an appropriate
flesh tone from the thousand colour file. I studied the fingers and didn't
like them...too thick. I called up the keypad and typed in a different
set of coordinates for the hand development but this would take a long
time, because I didn't want to screw up the rest of the body construct.
I timed it...four and a half hours realtime...ECA 11:32 pm for the new
finger program. I vanished the keypad.
     I had some time for more work on the brain file. Mark Twain...yes.
Bible...no.
     I jacked out at 1:23 am. I had urinated down my pant leg and I was
terribly hungry.

     When I left the building I was certain the guard was snickering at
me. At least I knew for certain he was thinking I looked ugly because
of how skinny I am.

    I slept for ten hours and realized I was late for work when I woke
up so I logged on to the mainframe and emailed in a sickness. Then I
logged out and switched over the terminal to VR and jacked in.

    I was interupted between IBM's net and the Guinevere file by a
floating security cipher. It printed out an access code request. I gave
it a scrambled code and shut it down. I continued down the circuit,
frustrated that I'd now have only an hour with my baby.
    The torso had a beautiful flesh tone and the fingers had come out
perfectly. More time with the brain. Large breasts.

    When I jacked out I saw that the mail had arrived. Bills. I didn't
bother to open them.

    I slept again. My headache was even worse when I woke up and I took
some pills to try and calm me down. I don't even remember what they were...
I bought them on the blackmarket in Chinatown.
    Jacking in at an unspecified time (I had forgotten to login my entry
time on my timer) I found two outside security locks on my Guinevere file.
I couldn't believe it...must have been the Company, refusing to let me
use their databases for the file. I got to work cracking them and once
I did I faded them out then set up two ghost lock constructs in their place.
Unless the operators checked real hard they wouldn't notice the difference.
I slipped into the file after making sure the circuit was free of security
ciphers.
     I spent three hours (ET) on the face. It was beautiful. I worked hard
on the skintone and the colours developed geometrically so it didn't take
long. The hard part would be linking the brain construct to the body. I
prepared the routines and decided to try and patch it in the next day.
     When I jacked out I almost vomited all over the terminal. I had spent
fourteen hours in the matrix...far too much. I shakily walked into the kitchen
and drank five cans of Pepsi. On the telephone answering machine was a
message from my mother. I made a note to call her back later.

    At the cafeteria the next day it was even worse. I could almost hear
the names my co-workers were calling me and I was certain I saw at least
four of them snickering at me as I sat down at my table. I made a point
of eating quickly and left that crowded, rotten place, trying to keep
my bowels under control.

    At my terminal that evening, after everyone had gone home except the
security cheif (who did nothing more than monitor the droids) I cried.
I felt so lonely. I hated this place so much. But I needed the database.
It was faster than jacking in from remote.
     I sat down in the plush chair I had dragged in from one of the offices
upstairs (I had gotten horrible cramps sitting in my wooden chair at home
when I was in matrix) and made myself comfortable.
     I attached the electrodes.
     I jacked in.
     I manouvered around a free-floating bank cipher and kept my sensors
online for a security cipher but there was nothing. When I arrived at
the Guinevere file I saw that my ghost constructs were still in place.
Idiots. I chuckled as I slipped in and faded out the keypad.
      It took me nearly five hours to link up the brain and body but I
managed to pull it off in one session. The skin tone was 96.7% complete
and the memories were intact. The grafting was nearly finished. The preferences
I had spent countless hours on were in place. I could always add more later.
      I rotated the scanner and gazed into Guinevere's lovely face.
      She opened her eyes and smiled.

      I didn't get home until four in the morning and drowned four more
Pepsis before having a quick nap. I had to start work again at eight so
if I slept for two hours I could have an hour in the matrix from remote
before taking the subway back to work.
      I remembered that I hadn't called back my mother. Later on today,
I decided.
      I jacked in.

      The skin tone was complete. Guinevere was still in the scanner and I
ran a series of tests through the system to see how she would hold up unaided
in the matrix, free of the construct. The results came back positive, no
margin for error.
      I faded out the file door and removed the construct.
      I held out my arms to Guinevere.

      *  *  *  *  *

      The police smashed open the apartment door one week later when Rodney
hadn't answered his phone or shown up for work. They found him slumped over
his terminal, electrodes still attached to his forehead. He was dead from
dehydration and a thin layer of dust covered his body. His mouth, horribly
dry and prune-like, was twisted in a grimace or a smile.
      "Look at him. He died in there and couldn't get out," said one cop
who thought it was a grimace.
      "Looks kind of happy to me," said another who thought it was a smile.



--
Richard J. Rauser            Holli Would If She Could
rauser@sfu.ca
WNI                                 Cool World