Fade To White

Way back when...I wrote pure SF. I wrote and sold this one in 1996. I like to think I've gotten better as a writer (don't anyone tell me I haven't!) and there are a lot of things I'd change if I were writing this again but I enjoyed doing it at the time. And, hey, the editor of Eternity Online was willing to pay me for it. Anyway, thought I'd share it with you. (And forgive the lousy formatting. There should be double carriage returns between the paragraphs but apparently I haven't quite got the hang of this new-fangled technology yet.)

Fade to White


"So my mom says," the girl flipped long brown tresses over her shoulder. "You know, that you're not real."

Matt leaned across the cool Formica table top and grasped the girl's hand. He caressed her thumb, then brought it gently to his lips. He relished the satiny feel of her skin, though he knew it was a simulation, part of her finessing. He enjoyed these scenarios as much as the customer. Maybe more so. "I'm as real as anyone."

The girl giggled and looked away. Her hair fell forward in a silken cascade. Matt stretched his mouth in his best supercharged megawatt grin and lifted her chin so he could look into her terribly blue eyes. He wondered if her eyes were really blue but shrugged the thought away. What did it matter? He had other concerns for the girl. "But your mom is right if she's saying that you shouldn't spend so much time here. You're what? Sixteen? There's a whole lot of world for you to see and do outside."

"Oh sure. Like I can just go and do stuff. Even if my mom would let me, I don't have any money."

"Well." Matt looked toward the counter where Joe served up hamburgers and fries and frothy glasses of soft drinks. Not enough smell, he thought. The restaurant ought to be filled with the scent of frying meat and french fries. He channeled a directive to Op's to increase olfactory stimulation. He sent another to turn up the volume of the juke box. His favorite oldie filled the small diner, thrumming through the floor and table top until the vibrations echoed in his bones. Better. Matt cocked his head at the teen. "You could use the twenty you spend on me to do stuff."

The girl looked up with shock and dismay. "But then I wouldn't see you. Matt, you're the only one I can talk to, the only one who understands me."

"Baby, I'll always be here for you. You know that." Matt patted her hand then released it. "But this isn't the real world. You need friends and family and school and . . . you need to build memories. You can't do that here."

"I thought you loved me." She dropped her gaze and stared at the remaining fries in her plate.

"You said you did."

"I do." Just like your mom does, he thought with a private wistfulness. "Just think about it, okay? Maybe go to the real Joe's Place with a group of your pals. Then come back next week and tell me about it. How's that sound?"

"I'd rather be with you."

"I know. The problem is I have to tell you time's up, which it is. Real friends don't have to do that."

"You wouldn't have to either if you'd meet me after you got off work."

"Baby, you know the rules. I'd lose my job." Matt shook his head, then grinned mischievously. "Besides in real life, I'm pretty ugly. You'd die of shock or something."

The girl laughed and stood up. "Do I look stupid? Don't answer that! I'll see you in a couple of days, okay?"

"Looking forward to it, baby," Matt stood and watched the girl's trim body until she passed through the door. As the door closed behind her, the counter faded, the tables turned to mist and the music died away, leaving Matt in a luminous white out.

Even as Matt wondered if he had another client, shapes began to form; bookcases, tables with pc's, the smell of paper and glue. Matt suppressed a groan.

Not Laughton again.

The man stood up and extended his hand in greeting. Matt forced a smile and took his hand. "James! How've you been?"

"Just fine, Matt. And you? I see from the wait, they've still got you hopping."

"I'm a popular guy," Matt shrugged and sat opposite the small man. He wondered about James Laughton. About his motives. In Matt's experience, busybodies like Laughton never had your interest at heart. All Matt wanted was to be left alone to do the work he enjoyed. And needed. "How're the wife and kids? Still keeping the lights on for you?"

The man blinked, then smiled. "Sure. They understand the nature of my work. They know how important it is."

"Pretty cushy job, if you ask me. Going into vr just to chat it up with the actors." Matt leaned forward. "If it was me, though, I'd ask for a different set. This turn of the century library is too retro."

"I don't know," Laughton glanced around. "I always liked this library. My mom brought me here when I was a kid."

"Read all the classics, right? Treasure Island, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities?"

Laughton smiled. "More like I, Robot and the works of Heinlein." He sobered and stared earnestly at Matt. "What about you? What did you read as a child?"

"Oh, I wasn't much into reading." Matt shrugged and felt his gut tighten. Laughton's image wavered for a second. Matt was losing his concentration. He did the relaxation exercises he'd learned over the years and the image stabilized. "I make up for it now."

"You have time to read? I thought you were on call ten hours a day?"

"I've found I can read a lot between customers. And I do have time off, you know. I asked for the extended hours." Matt glanced down at the papers in front of Laughton. "So. Is there something I can help you research? You're still working on your doctorate, aren't you?"

"When I can." Laughton nodded. Matt noticed the slight graying on Laughton's temples and wondered if the man's image matched his real life appearance. "But what I have here is a list of all the Rhapsody employees. People like you."

"Oh?" Matt felt his jaw clench but projected an equable smile.

"You know I've been canvassing all of you. The hours you work, the conditions you have to face. You live on Rhapsody grounds. And as far as I can determine, you're not allowed to leave. Rhapsody supplies you with food, clothing, medical benefits and all this is in exchange for eight to twelve hour days, seven days a week at barely more than minimum pay." Laughton stared at Matt. "Two hundred years ago, we'd call this slavery."

"Oh, come on, James." Matt scowled. "We're all here of our own free will. Rhapsody is a good employer. The best."

"Are you here of your own free will? Or is it because you can't leave?" Laughton tapped the papers on the table. "Some of your co-workers want out, you know. For instance, Denise 1230. Here's a statement of her account with Rhapsody. Fourteen thousand for unit rental. That's nearly twice what you'd pay on the outside. Food costs her approximately six thousand a year. Again, nearly twice what it costs outside. Denise gives her entire pay back to Rhapsody and still owes them money."

"So you're comparing Rhapsody to the company stores in the early nineteen hundreds?" Matt shook his head. "What about the benefits? Don't they get averaged into the pay? What about medical expenses? I know Denise. She's on dialysis every two weeks. Rhapsody picks that up, along with all her med's."

"I've got statistics here that indicate Rhapsody's health costs lead the nations. Now, the Right to Know Act of 2018 prevents me from studying those records but I'd wonder what it is about being a performer that leads to this kind of cost."

"A lot of us came to Rhapsody with some kind of health baggage, John." Matt didn't want to think about his own baggage. "You sent that survey out a few months back. Some of us must have filled it out."

Laughton rifled through his papers and selected then held one up. "Some did. You wrote 'None of your," Laughton cleared his throat. Matt lifted an eyebrow. "Um, business' in the personal section. Matt, you're the highest rated Rhapsody employee, the one with the most seniority as a performer. Everyone at Rhapsody looks up to you. You can be a leader, a real leader. Join us and the others will follow." Laughton warmed to his subject. He leaned forward and whispered. "Rhapsody doesn't give you anything you can't get outside."

"What about educational costs? Rhapsody lets us study anything we like. Most of us have the equivalent of bachelor degrees, you know. Some of us have doctorates."

"You can get an education at any of the state schools. Education is guaranteed. And besides, isn't the educational cost purely to Rhapsody's benefit? Isn't it true that you need to be educated to perform properly in the scenario's?"

"Is your education benefitting you or your employer?" Matt countered. "Or both? Are you getting your doctorate through a state school? I thought you were at N.W.U."

Laughton stared into the book stacks. "The fact remains . . . you've signed a contract with Rhapsody that will not permit you to leave until your accounts are even. You can't quit because they've rigged the books to keep you in debt."

Matt felt a tremor of dread creep up his spine. These were logical arguments. Logic in the hands of the wrong people could be a dangerous thing. He fell back on the only real defense he could find. "Listen. This isn't for me. I just want to do my job and live my life. I don't want to get involved with your union."

"So. You don't mind being virtual prostitute? A slave?"

"Think about it, James." Matt shook his head and leaned back. "Out there, I'd be on the dole. Subsistence level at the best. I'd be restricted to whatever the charities or agencies could afford to give me. But here . . . man, I can go places and be anyone I want to be. I can live in mansions or visit the Martian colony or the French underwater cities. Hell, I can live history. I can be the star of any vid or book disk. And, I'm not bragging now, I always get the girl. Tell me how I can do better outside?"

"Outside, you'd have a choice. Outside, you could decide your own destination. Take charge of yourself. You wouldn't be subject to the whims of flighty teenagers or horny old men."

"That would be a real improvement, wouldn't it?" Matt stood up and paced back and forth. He couldn't terminate the session. After all, Laughton had paid for a full thirty minutes. Laughton frightened him. Laughton frightened him as much as the thought of being back on the streets; hungry, cold . . . alone. People who loved his persona would cross the street to avoid him in reality. The hell with political correctness. You couldn't change human nature.

"Man, I have to pass," Matt sat down. "I like it here. Rhapsody is my home. I won't do anything to jeopardize that."

"You're afraid. I can understand that. A lot of people are afraid of change."

"Yeah, I'm afraid." Matt said. "I'm afraid you and people like you are going to ruin it for us. For people like me."

Laughton sighed and gathered his papers. "My time's almost up. I wish you'd reconsider, Matt. Solidarity is the only way we'll be able to make things better for you vr performers. But with or without you, change will come."

"I'm sorry." Matt shook his head, falling back on his professional persona. He smiled and added enough warmth to take the sting from his words. "But you just don=t know where I'm coming from. You can't know."

"Then show me." Laughton challenged. "Show me what Rhapsody does that makes you so afraid to leave, to be a real man. Show me."

Matt stared at the man. Did he really want to know how it was to be the real Matt? Abruptly, Matt released his persona. His view shifted, lowered in the chair, tilted as the congenital twist of spine bent him. Laughton stared, white faced and mouth agape.

A host of machinery appeared around Matt. The breather to assist his malfunctioning lungs. The voice synthesizer equipment so he could speak. The catheter to collect his body wastes. Matt allowed the sounds of the equipment to swell into the hushed atmosphere. Hisses, beeps, staticky cracks and pops, and wet gurgling groans competed for dominance. For good measure, Matt let his body odor sweep through the room. With his one good eye, he watched the expression on Laughton's face go utterly still. He knew Laughton would project a warm, compassionate expression as soon as he regained control. But it was too late. Matt knew it, so did Laughton.

"My mother was poor. A street person. She took drugs to escape reality." Matt's voice hissed and growled from the speaker attached to his wheelchair. "And condemned me . . . to this."

"Well," Laughton said heavily. He stood up and gathered his papers. "If you change your mind, let me know. I'm on the City Net."

As Laughton raced toward the library exit, Matt gathered his persona and finessed his appearance again. Maybe Laughton wouldn't bother him now. Maybe Laughton finally understood. Maybe pigs could fly.

A small chime rang in his inner ear. Quitting time. It had been a long day. Matt stood up. He yawned loudly and savored the stretch and pull of muscles. The programmers really knew their stuff.

Matt wondered if he could convince Denise to join him for dinner. A little place in Paris. Or Rome. Someplace quiet and intimate, with candles and soft music. Someplace he could talk to her privately. If Laughton could talk her into signing his petition, Matt could talk her out of it. The others, too. Laughton wanted him to be a leader. So he'd be a leader. Rhapsody was his home. He'd find a way to protect it.

Matt watched the walls fade to white.

The End