From: moore7004@iscsvax.uni.edu
Subject: Work In Progress
Date: 24 Feb 93 23:44:55 GMT

Comments are welcome...

Work In Progress
Part One: That's Entertainment

     There came a point in her life when it became clearly apparent that family
life was ultimately not as entertaining as it could be.
        It wasn't her oppresive parents, and the sado-incestuous brands of
techno-torture they employed to at once keep her in line and supplement the
family income.  It wasn't the taunting and torment she received at the hands,
feet, and teeth of her maniacal siblings, all of whom had at least one more
reason to be alive than she.  It wasn't her complete, forced isolation from the
rest of culture at large, and the ridiculously ominous and tiny room she lived
in when her shows were over, and it wasn't even the lack of table service, the
way food was hurled into the room sans plate, bowl, fork, and glass, so that
she might just as well wear her food as try to eat it.
        Nope.  Wasn't any of that.  After all, heck, you could drop into a
routine like that, and really, if it's all you've ever known, who says it can't
be enjoyable?  Not her.  She can groove with the best of 'em.
        It is something else, some nag, some -- dare I say -- existential
twinge, some metaphysical beacon that occasionally blinks behind her forehead
like a little supernatural LED.  She sees it mainly when they apply the high
voltage, right at that point in the show where they literally fry all of her
clothes off for the benefit of the assembled grunges.  She hesitates to give
this little flash any credence, she knows the theories behind the shock, heck,
part of the torture was an oh-so-explicit description of the exact method of
torture *before* the actual event, let you sit and stew, dagnabit, but her
parents are *professionals*.  And her father's stereotypically leering visage
is replaced by a twinge, a beacon, an LED, a whatchamacallit, that says to her
in not so many words, "Hey, what's a nice girl like you doing hooked up to
monstrosity like that?"
        But it fades, of course, that's what you'd expect, they take the power
away, and there it goes.  And yet, needless to say, she can't just *forget*,
heck, if she could, it wouldn't be torture at all.  She knows it's there, or
rather, she gnows it's there, waiting for her to answer.  It's a kind of bitter
irony that the only time she's asked the question is precisely the time when
she's powerless to answer -- that electricity takes hold of you in so many
ways, and there's just no arguing.  And she doesn't thing to ask, "Yowsa, what
kinda way is this to live," she actually looks forward to the moment when
they'll jam those bare wires under her skin, so that she can maybe, fucking
once at least, squeeze out a tiny, pathetic, little "Help," just to see what
would happen.

        It's raining like a mother fuck, to use the colloquial jargon.  It's
raining just like a mother fuck might rain, if mother fucks were actually
entities that involved themselves in precipitation as a matter of course.  It's
a smelly, dirty kind of rain, the precipitation of the accelerated
industrialized world at large, creating grime on his coat as he slides through
the streets.  He's very slick, of course, and it's not at all inappropriate to
say that he does in fact slide through the streets, through the throngs of
grunges who inhabit the Perimeter (TM).  Granted, he's not slick enough to live
under the Dome (TM), but he's just slick enough to stay out of the Camps (TM),
and that's good enough for him.  He had the word "cyberpunk" tattoed on his arm
back in 1993, and he leaves it there, for old time's sake.  That was a time, of
course, when damn near *everybody* thought it'd be groovy as hell to "jack into
the Matrix" and "cruise through cyberspace" -- fucking *cyberspace*.  He
giggles at the thought.
        Gotta get inside, get some sustenance, find a power port to plug his
Disposable Terminal (TM) into, maybe read the news if he gets a break.  The
makeshift -- what did they used to call 'em -- ah, yes -- shantytown,
Hooverville, Global Village that surrounds the Dome -- *completely* surrounds
the Dome -- is a sprawling, desperate Entity Unto Itself.  As in, the streets
have eyes, the walls have ears, the people have diseases, and the food has no
spices, it's just that bland sort of "Oliver Twist" shit you'd expect from a
Tibetan monastery, back before the Tibetans all quit their bodies and headed
for Parts Unknown (TM).  There's a row of entertainment shacks ahead, and he
decides it's been long enough since he's had an erection; destination sighted,
he slides toward it.
        There's a pug-nosed brat at the door, wanting money; nobody's looking,
so he jams a Stimstick (TM) under the kid's chin and "accidentally" knocks him
unconscious.  Should he wake up any time in the next 24 hours, he will think
his name is "Cecilia"; those Stimsticks are the craziest thing.  There's a bar
in the back with some kind of stew-thing going in a giant pot, and a stage at
the front with a big gaudy neon sign above it that says "See The Tortured
Distress Of LORELEI!"  And he thinks to himself, "Maybe I'll do that.  Maybe
I'll see the tortured distress of Lorelei."
        He sidles up to the bar, orders sludge on the rocks -- remember the
good old days when "the rocks" meant actual ice cubes? -- and a big bowl full
of whatever constitutes the stew these days.  Then he asks for the nearest
power port, and the barkeep offers him an old extension to the nearest port
free of charge.  He sets his terminal on the bar, to the assorted "ooohs" and
"ahhs" of the plebes around him.  Most of these folks haven't owned a
*computer* since the Gay Nineties; some of them have never *seen* one.  And
it's not just surprise that he's got a computer, it's surprise that he hasn't
got one in his *head* like all the uppercrust in the Dome.
        The news pops up on screen, and there's that anchorperson that he loves
so much, Veronica James, rattling off the latest in Dome politics.  For some
odd reason, he feels the need to keep up, just in case, someday, on the off
chance that an opportunity displays itself, stranger than fantasy, sure, a
million to one odds, it could *never* happen, heck, a googol to one, but just
in case -- he might get *inside*.  Yowsa, he says to himself.  Yowsa.
        The lead story is once again the ETs.  And once again, the story
amounts to, there they are, what the fuck do we do know?  The Dome has of
course forsaken weaponry of all kind, especially the noo-cu-lar variety, but
rumor has it that various Governmental (TM) types aren't above dealing with the
Fringe Market (TM) every now and again.  And, Veronica says, it would simply be
a *shame* and a half to *embarrass* our poor planet by going off half cocked
about this affair.  But attempts to communicate have remained futile; the ETs
are here, but they're quite a reticent sort, it seems.  They must not speak the
non-local lingo, he thinks to himself.

        The Dome covers, approximately of course, one third of the
reconstructed face of the Earth.  Inside, all your dreams can come true.  The
climate is beautifully controlled, it's a spring-like 72 degrees most of the
time, it rains every Thursday evening after work, and a couple days a year,
around Christmas, it snows a bit, but don't worry, it melts right away.
Veronica used to like it, but, oh, you know, it'd be nice for a bit of variety,
you know, some kind of spice.  Even if it was just the weather, even if there
was just a *bit* of unpredictability about it, that would do the trick.
        She leaves her office building and catches a taxi, which promptly lifts
off towards her home address with a polite "Please fasten your safety belt."
Hell, even her job was the utmost in boredom before the ETs came along.  Before
that, the only news to speak of was the occasional Governmental press release,
a couple of sports scores, the occasional Ejection Notice ("John Doe and his
family were today summarily ejected from the Dome after failing to meet minimum
average IQ requirements..."), and, of course, the Billboard Top Twenty.  The
only requirement was a beautiful face and a pleasant speaking voice, and even
the voice was optional, heck, you could *synthesize* that if you needed to.
        She slips into her apartment, heads for the couch, orders some food
from the service, and searches for her Connection (TM).  Hard to believe some
obscure Sci-Fi author from the Gay Nineties actually predicted/caused the rise
of this technology, huh.  But there it is, you can't just introduce a meme to
the meme pool without at least warning the other swimmers.  She raises the flap
on the back of her scalp -- a designer flap, to be sure, complete with witty
saying on the inside, today it's "My karma ran over my dogma" -- and inserts
said Connection.
        "Channel Twenty-Three," she says.
        Moments later, she's screaming in pain and terror, clawing at the
Connection.  How's that for variety, she reverberates to herself before
succumbing to unconsciousness.

        He can't believe what a waste of power this is, and yet, needless to
say, he can understand the macabre appeal of such a show.  Mother and father
team up to "educate" their wayward daughter Lorelei, through any means
necessary.  At first it's just the usual, whips and needles, blunt instruments
about the head and neck, scalding hot water and just the wrong ointment to take
care of the problem, but then, it starts to get interesting, the innuendo
starts flying, the grunges start shouting, and suddenly a couple pug-nosed
brats wheel onstage this giant medieval-looking contraption, and Mother hangs
her clothes on it, and Dad yanks out these two thin steel wires, and before you
know it, the voltage is absolutely coursing through poor Lorelei.
        He wants to remain detached, of course, and needless to say, he's seen
worse, a couple months ago someone actually *melted* some kid, and no one knows
if they did it on purpose or not, but this show is relatively popular, as in,
it happens every night, the regulars know just when the daughter's clothes are
going to sizzle away, and Dad's gonna "jack in to the Flesh Matrix," as he
likes to say.
        And he glances down at his terminal briefly, intending to shut it off,
and sees the screen has been wiped clean, and one simple word remains.
        HELP.
        He wipes his eyes, shakes his head, but there it is, enigmatic as all
get out.
        He looks up.  And he sees the strangest thing in Lorelei's eyes, he
doesn't at all see what he had expected.  Normally in a case like this you'd
expect Lorelei's eyes to have that glazed-over, lobotomized kind of look to
him, but quite the contrary, Lorelei's eyes are vicious and intense, aware and
struggling, searching, penetrating, whatever, but there they are, actively
engaged.  Not in what her Dad's up to, of course -- engaged in something else,
something just out of sight, and it looks like it's damn near compelling.
        It seems like a strange coincidence that the word "HELP" should appear
on his screen just as they apply the electricity to the poor girl.  And
naturally there's no possible way for there to be an apparent connection
between the two events -- it's just synchronicity, and that's all.  But when
viewed from the proper perspective -- "we got ETs in the sky, dontchaknow" --
it becomes apparent that far stranger things have happened, and after all,
wouldn't be something else if he actually decided to give a shit about some of
the people in this dung heap?  Especially one who's getting an inordinate
amount of wattage pumped through her on a nightly basis.
        He slams his terminal shut, stuffs it in his pack, and stands up.  The
shack is relatively packed, but he's counting on typical grunge ambivalence
toward anything but their own immediate survival.  He strides toward the stage,
confident in his own lack of a real need to do what he's doing, watching
closely for any sign of a potential conflict, which he doesn't expect to arise
until he actually jumps onto the stage.
        He jumps onto the stage, and a conflict immediately arises.  The Mother
turns toward him with a disgusting grimace on her face -- coitus interruptus
will do that to some people.  Before she can react, she receives a stimstick
right in a very sensitive spot, and he's certain her sexual orientation will be
quite unique when she awakes.  It takes Dad a little longer to react, mainly
because he's much closer to completion of the act, and when he does react, it's
mainly with a surprised "what the fuck--", which is not at all akin to the
anticipated thread, and then Dad hits the floor, sleeping the sleep of those
who've just had most of their internal lexicons deleted.
        The wires are still attached, and he steps over Dad's body to turn the
machine off.  Moments after he turns it off, he kicks it over and watches it
burst into flames.  Then he turns to Lorelei.  The crowd is muttering a bit.
They can't tell if this is part of the show.
        "Hi," he says to her, unstrapping her from the metal rack.
        She responds with a "huhhnnnn..." that he clearly takes to be a "Thank
you, thank fucking God you came," and he takes off his jacket and wraps it
around her in a chivalrous fashion.
        "I'd like to take you away from here," he says, and realizes just as he
says it that he really does sound like a commercial when he says it.
        She replies, "whhuuuhhh...," and he translates that into a "Yes, yes,
God yes, anywhere," and he lifts her up in his arms and starts off the stage.
        The grunges begin to get restless, but he thinks he can make it out the
door before they really raise a fuss.  But a more immediate problem presents
itself: three pug-nose brats appear, and block his way out.  He sets Lorelei on
the ground and faces them.
        "What the FUCK do you FUCKING thing YOU'RE doing, FUCKFACE?" one of
them says.
        He's in the mood for witty repartee like this, and so he replies, "None
of your GODDAMN FUCKING business, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS."  Cursing in capital letters
is one of his pasttimes, after all.
        "Where the FUCK do you think you're FUCKING going with our FUCKING
sister?"
        "None of your GODDAMN FUCKING business, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS."  The classic
lines always work the best.
        "If you don't FUCKING walk the FUCK out of here, ALONE, I'm gonna mash
your FUCKING SKULL up into a powder and put it in the FUCKING STEW."  This
particular pug-nose has an attitude, it seems.
        "Oh, so THAT'S the FUCKING taste I wondered about," he replies.
        The game has gotten a little annoying, and a quick stimburst knocks all
three of them onto their little pug-asses.  One of the grunges has started to
finger Lorelei, and for him, he simply employs a swift steel boot to the
forehead.  Then he picks her up again, and starts for the door.
        There's a fire on the stage behind him; he wonders if the grunges will
ever get up to move.  He's almost to the door when he hears the horrific sonic
scream that always precedes the firing of plasma weapons -- fucking *plasma*
weapons -- and then the air behind him is filled with plasma bursts, screaming
through the air straight at his back, and he and Lorelei are about to be
disintegrated, and it's at that moment that he realizes his unrequited love for
Veronica James will never be fulfilled.  Darn the luck...


From organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!ux1.cso.uiuc.edu!news.iastate.edu!iscsvax.uni.edu!moore7004 Tue Mar  2 08:30:33 MST 1993
Article: 1240 of alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Path: organpipe.uug.arizona.edu!amethyst!noao!asuvax!cs.utexas.edu!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!ux1.cso.uiuc.edu!news.iastate.edu!iscsvax.uni.edu!moore7004
From: moore7004@iscsvax.uni.edu
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Work In Progress Part 2
Message-ID: <1993Mar2.000917.11311@iscsvax.uni.edu>
Date: 2 Mar 93 06:09:17 GMT
Organization: University of Northern Iowa
Lines: 204

Comments are, as always, inordinately welcome.  And pardon the typos...

Work In Progress
Part Two - "The Calm After The Proverbial Storm"

   The plasma blasts are deadly, of course.  A plasma blast cuts through the
outer layer of flesh like the proverbial knife through the proverbial butter.
When it reaches the heated inner layer of tissue, muscle, bone, and perhaps
organ, it begins to "feed" on its surroundings, burrowing into the flesh and
consuming what it can, leaving, ultimately, gaping caverns in the poor human
body that happened to be in the way when the blasts were fired.
   Unfortunately, your average pug-nosed brat, born and raised in the
Perimeter, hasn't exactly acquired the best airm in the world.  The blasts
explode harmlessly against the wall, dissipating for lack of an energy source,
and he careens out the front door of the shack.  Almost immediately he collides
with a row of passersby, and he and Lorelei are tumbled to the ground.  Before
the first round of "fuck you"s is finished, he's reaching for Lorelei's hand,
ever the chivalrous gentleman.  Disgruntled stares turn to bemused and menacing
leers when Lorelei's relative nudity is realized; he reaches for his stimstick,
clicks the setting to "nasty," and chars the grunge nearest him into a screaming
fit.
   "Sorry," he mutters.
   He yanks Lorelei to him by her arm.  She's in no condition to run of her own
accord, and it isn't likely he'll be able to get very far with her slung over
his shoulders.  Already he can hear a ruckus from the shack behind him, much
sooner than he would have liked.
   He clicks the stimstick to "stimulant," turns it on Lorelei and then himself,
and within seconds the two of them sprint away from the scene, clawing and
elbowing where necessary.  It's starting to rain/ooze much harder now, which is
a distinct advantage; the sludge from the skies will keep the plasma weapons
out of operation, and prevent their pursuers from keeping close track of them
in the crowd.
   He's headed now for the Suburbs.  He always liked it there best anyway.

   Veronica spends several pleasantly dazed moments prone on the floor.  The
first few moments are filled with hallucinations and the like, followed by a
few moments of simple amnesia, followed quickly by a panic-induced stupor.
This is the first time in her entire twenty-three years of life that she's
ever had any kind of problem with her connection.  After all, for what you pay,
you're supposed to get such a high level of technology that you'll have had the
chance to die several natural deaths before the little guy wears out.  Back
before the Dome was erected, an amazing black market existed for human heads
complete with connections, that would then be resold to completely undeserving
grunges on the outskirts of society, and before you knew it, those grunges were
penetrating *your* virtual space, and once that started to happen, it was only
a matter of time until the Government got to work on a solution...
   She rubs her connection gingerly, but quickly realizes it's wasted effort.
She may imagine that it hurts up there, but frankly, the connection is a metal
socket; the pain is psychosomatic, in that region at least.  Still, it's going
to be a long time before she tries to plug in again.  And that itself is a
disturbing thought.  How in the hell is she going to work?  How is she going
to stay in touch?  Bleah.
   The last thing she remembers before the fireball burst of energy is a
plaintive voice in her head.  The voice wasn't distant, wasn't separate, like
normal virtual voices; the voice was right there *in her head*, cozying on up
to her cerebellum, whispering a tiny, pathetic little "help" and then completely
knocking her off her chair.  It could very well have been an isolated phenome-
non, isolated to her and her alone; then again, if her connection was involved,
perhaps it had to do with the Net itself.  She considers this a brilliant
deduction in her weakened state; investigative reporting used to be her thing,
after all.
   Slowly she claws her way to a sitting position, beads of sweat dripping from
her forehead onto her designer dress.  She may very well still have one of
those old style terminals, the kind you just plugged in and stared at, as
opposed to having the information directly before your eyes.  She might feel
safe with that, especially if the Net itself has gone a wee bit haywire.  It'd
be stuffed in the closet; she never unpacked it after moving away from home.
The challenge now will be to get from her chair to the closet.
   She spends a good forty-five minutes pondering this problem, although
subjectively it feels like at least a good five or six minutes longer than
that.  Then she stands, ready to head for the bedroom closet.
   Suddenly, she hears an amazingly loud knock on the door.  It's not the
sheer suspense that knocks her down this time, but the fact that her ears are
so sensitive that each individual knock sounds like a cannon.  She falls over
this time of her own accord; it would just be so much easier to hang out on
the floor for a little while longer.

   Lorelei understands quite little of what has just happened to her, but
that's to be expected.  She's never felt rain; in fact, she's rarely felt water,
and she's never seen the outdoors before, or at the least, she certainly can't
remember it.  Her eyes scan the situation ferociously, taking in every scrap of
scenery, every bit of her new environment.  She's rather chilly, wishes she had
more clothing, but for the moment, she's satisfied with the mere fact that she
is *outside her shack*.
   Her companion doesn't say anything to her for quite some time.  At first,
he occupies himself with stealing some transportation; he mutters something
about how he might be recognized, but she doesn't know by whom, and doesn't
think to ask.  They climb inside a ground vehicle of some sort, and are soon
moving quite fast away from the town; there's no time for her curiosity, and at
any rate, she simply isn't sure what questions to ask.
   At some point, the muddy road they're on abruptly changes to some kind of
smooth surface, and they begin travelling even faster.  They're headed now
toward a body of amazingly large structures, buildings -- skyscrapers, he calls
them.  She asks if he isn't afraid that the people there might recognize him as
well; he replies that there are no people there worth worrying about, which is
why he lives there.  She's not too cold anymore, as the car blows some kind of
heat, but she's beginning to feel quite hungry.  He tells her to check the
glove compartment; she does, but finds only what he calls a handgun.  She puts
it back; he seems satisfied with that.
   It's quite dark when they finally reach the skyscrapers, the city.  The
streets here are completely deserted, there are no lights to be seen, no people.
It's one of the few old cities to remain standing after the reconstruction of
the planet's surface.  He likes to call this his city, his home base, from
whence he will someday attack the elitist heathen who inhabit the Dome.  Oh,
sure, he sometimes says to himself, it's a ridiculous fantasy...and then, other
days, he's filled with so much rage at what has happened and who has perpetrated
it that the mere thought of *not* penetrating the Dome threatens to tear him
into itty-bitty pieces, gory pieces, and he ain't kidding either.
   "Do you want to talk?" he eventually asks.
   "I'm not sure," she replies.
   "Your name is Lorelei, right?" he asks.
   "How'd you know?" she replies.
   "Read it on the sign.  'The Distress of Lorelei,' something like that.  How
often did you have to do that show?"
   "Every night."
   He pauses respectfully, maybe whistles or something.
   "Every night?" he asks.
   "Yes," she replies.
   "Complete with the electricity?" he asks.
   "Yes," she replies.
   He pauses again.  This time he pauses to consider what it might mean to have
that much voltage pumped through a human body every single night for...how
long?
   "How long?" he asks.
   "I don't know," she replies.  "As long as I can remember."
   That may not be long, he says to himself.  High voltage can do that to you.
   "You didn't...enjoy it, did you?"  Sure, maybe it's a stupid question, but
you gotta know the background.
   "I was supposed to," she replies.  "They wanted me to.  I don't think I did,
though."  Now she pauses.  "No, I don't think so."
   He decides to remain silent for a while.  She decides, after a while, that
this makes her uncomfortable.  She wants to know too many things, all at once.
   "What's your name?" she asks.  "What should I call you?"
   "Cramer," he replies.  He turns to her and says, "Hi, my name is Cramer.  I'm
pleased to meet you."  He tries to smile at her.  Empathy isn't one of his
strong points.
   "I'm pleased to meet you too," she says sincerely.
   She pauses one more time, wondering how to frame her next question.
   "Cramer," she begins.
   "Yeah?" he replies.
   "Why did you do what you did?  I mean...why did you bring me with you?"
   "You mean, why did I rescue you?"
   "I guess that's what I mean.  Yes.  Why did you?"
   He pauses.  It's one of those uncomfortable kind of pauses, one that builds
a bit of dramatic tension, and the slightest misstep will kill the mood.
   "Well...uh, Lorelei...I was watching my monitor...and..."
   And I saw the word "Help" appear, and I thought it came from you.  Yeah, of
course, it's perfectly plausible, when I examine it from that light.  I thought
you somehow sent a message into the Net, purely by *thinking* it.  Of *course*
that's why I did it.  Shit, Cramer, you are one bad mofo, ain'tcha.  Let's face
it, you just got a hero complex, that's all, tomorrow you'll be back into the
Perimeter to rescue damn near every slag in every sex show all the way 'round
the Dome...
   "Did you get my 'help' message?" she asks.
   He looks at her.  He doesn't much know what to say.  Oh, sure, things are
weird in this universe, but *that* weird?
   "Well...yes, actually."
   "Good," she says.  She sits back in her seat, leaving him a-wonderin'.

   "Veronica?" the voice calls from outside her door.  It's a gruff, sort of
stereotypically nasal voice, demanding that she "Open up!  Come on, they want
you at the station!"
   Ah, yes.  Must be some kind of major story breaking, if they've come all the
way here to get her after she's just finished her shift.
   "Hang on," she tries to call back, "I'm stuck over here on the floor," but
she doesn't think Calley hears her.
   "Look, can I just use my key?  Are you naked or something?  Can I just come
in?"
   "Yes," she replies as loudly as possible.
   "Yes what?  Yes, you're naked?  Look, I'm coming in."
   Calley comes in, sees her on the floor, shakes his head.
   "Damn it, Veronica, lay off the chemicals, will ya?"  He comes to her, lifts
her up, sets her back on the chair.  "You gotta get in shape.  The whole Net's
fucked.  They need a reassuring face, quick."
   "Fucked?  What do you mean?"
   "I mean, fucked.  Couple hours ago, some massive power surge charged through
the whole fucking Net.  Tons of people got fried, everybody's scared as piss,
the bosses want somebody they can trust to get on and let everybody know every-
thing's okay."
   "*Is* everything okay?" she asks.
   "How the fuck should I know?  I just drive the car."
   "Listen, Calley, do me a favor, get me a glass of juice, would you?"  She
needs time to think.  What would it mean to have the entire Net in a panic?
   "Yeah, fuck, I love to lackey."  He heads off to the kitchen.
   She stands on her own, that last little bit of generic determination pro-
pelling her toward her bedroom.  Once inside, she closes and locks the door;
wouldn't be good for Calley to see her with an old style terminal.  She reaches
into the top shelf of her closet, falls over but catches herself on a row of
dresses, pulls herself back to her feet, reaches up once more, and pulls down
the box containing the terminal.  In a matter of minutes, she's plugged into
the wall.
   Meanwhile, Calley is shouting, "Jesus, Veronica, do you want this fucking
juice or not?  And hurry up, the car is running."
   She turns it to her station, and Orvei Morrison is calmly reassuring the
audience at large that there is simply nothing to worry about, that Netwide
communications have been restored almost instantly, that the mysterious surge
killed far fewer people than has been rumored, and most of all, that the word
"help" that everyone keeps talking about is one big mass hallucination caused
by the surge itself.  In short, Orvei's feeding everyone a line, because we all
know that the Net is so damn secure that nothing short of an act of some archaic
god could cause a *Netwide* surge of *any* kind.
   The obvious theory to her, the one that she knows will *never* get any
press, is that the ETs had something to do with it.  And suddenly her interest
is more than peaked.