From: dlwood@mothra.cns.syr.edu (David L Wood)
Subject: Insanity (01/--)
Organization: Syracuse University, Syracuse, NY
Date: Tue, 18 Aug 92 00:19:32 EDT

This is cyberspace intensive, with emphasis on empathy.
More details at bottom.

...........................................................................
 Insanity
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     The world spinned, flickered, and finally blinked into existence around
the virtual embodiment of Jill Fischer, aka SilverPain.  Her form
materialized, a dizzying, twirling cloud of silver filaments, illuminated
from within by a glowing, white light, hidden by the swirling filemants.  She
choose her form to best describe the pain she feels in her physical form. The
swirl of sharp-edged silver formed a pair of ghost-like limbs, arms reaching
out and she moved.  Flying, trailing silver pain behind her like a particle
in a bubble chamber, she sought her niche in the cyberspace that sheltered
her.  It was the only place she could call home.

     As though the sprawl was a pastel copy of Spirit Alley, the cyberspatial
avenues were filled with exotic life forms, and even more exotic wares being
peddled by the street merchants.  Information was the currency, and black ice
the weapons of trade.  Silverpain drew her tendrils in closer to her,
shielding her inner light, and hovered by the entrance to a cyber bar called
Tech Shack.  Looking down the alley of merchants, net runners coming in
through satellite links, and the all-too-frequent cyberpunk, in full silicon
attire, Silverpain saw her follower.

     A sightly figure composed of four triangular faceted, albeit high
resolution, sphereoids connected via luminescent arcs in a circle spun to
face Silverpain.  Silverpain extended an arm, reaching to touch the arc of
light connecting the spheres, half expecting the figure to ripple like
water's reflections.  The spheres, however, rearranged themselves, and
morhphed into a (slightly) more human form.  The torso was an elipsoid, the
hands and feet were tiny sphere, the arms and legs borrowed the light arcs
from the original form, and the head was a flat, oval mirror bearing two red
ovals for eyes and one dark line for a mouth.  Silverpain withdrew her hand
in recognition, "InnerFace, nice morphing."  Her tone was flat, noncommital.

     "Shall we enter? I have little time."  equally flat, the line jumped as
an oscilloscope traced out the voice's waveform.  Silverpain turned, followed
by Innerface, gliding into the bar.

     No one turns and looks when cybernauts enter the bar, not like in the
old westerns, even when exotic forms like Silverpain and Innerface float in.
The general rule is, You choose a strange form, that's your choice- so don't
breathe a single nasty word about my own form, or you'll be looking at so
much black ice it'll look like your mother's womb.  This rule was accepted by
all, and those that didn't- don't talk much anymore, about anything.
Silverpain waded through the tables, picking out one fairly close to the bar.
Innerface settled down, and the oscilloscope-trace mouth began to wriggle
again.

     "Ssssilverpain.  Order a neurobuzz for us, I must explain to you the
nature of a new type of ICE...."  The arcs of light shimmered, fading between
colors, a plasma psychedelic flow of flourescent reds, green, opal, and
finally resting on a nuclear yellow.

     Taken slightly aback by Innerface's abruptness, but intrigued by his
claims of discovery, she raised her voice not quite to a shout, but not too
soft either, her voice augmented by a reverb and high-pass echo circuit, with
the end result of sounding like a crystal chandelier in a draft. "Geroptex!"
In the time it took the voice recog wares to identify the name, Silverpain
couldn't have blinked.  A molecule by molecule fade-in of an android
appearing waiter confronted the two at their table.

     "Service?" a voice reminiscent of an old-millenia "Speak and Spell"
machine queried them.

     "In trade, one net router access code, add to credit of Silverpain
account.  Retrieve code from drop box 13, this net address.  I order now, two
neurobuzz stimulants, strength- exstasy euphoria 5." The android chewed on
that.  It was more than she usually ordered, but Innerface was a hardcore
buzzer, he would've been insulted with anything less.  It was not as though
she didn't enjoy neurosystem stimulation, she received it constantly in the
real world for her physical pain.  She simply prefered to retain a high
degree of control over her mind.

     "Acknowledged.  Code... verified.  Account updated.  Order processed,
receive order on table links 1 and 2. Service?"

     Silverpain responded with tones reserved only for machines and one's
worst enemy, "Done. Exit."

     Without as much as a click or a beep the android waiter program
vanished.  Innerface stirred. The lights on the table next to the neuro-slots
flashed green, awaiting the synaptic connections of the receipients.  Looking
around her, Silverpain saw most of the crowd in the bar was trying out the
newest in the Tech Shack's neurobuzz stimulants, a body-shock it was called.
Body orgasm would be a better term judging from the reactions of the denizens
occupying the Shack that night.  Innerface jacked his synapses in. Silverpain
followed, and sync'ed with him.
     Waves of excstasy rushed up and down her spinal column, along her skin,
covering her entire body with prickling pleasure.  She threw her head back,
silver trails snapping to attention.  She then felt on a parallel with
Innerface, a rising feeling, like being on an escalator going up to the
stars, very fast.  Feeling the euphoria rise, she trembled as she let the
neurostim take her to new heights of pleasure, pure and unrefined.  The
entire room slowed down to a crawl, as though time itself were slowing down.
She looked back to Innerface, he looked at her, and she saw her own face,
with the two red eyes superimposed on his mirror-head.  The red eyes
narrowed, and Silverpain knew he was feeling the same as her.  Time was
stopping for everyone except them, she felt.  She felt the prickly pleasure
again, and time resumed its natural flow.  Fading to a memory of excrutiating
pleasure, the neuro-socket's lights dimmed to black.  "Mmmm, very good." she
murmurred.
     "Nothing at all like a body-shock, but still, that was good."  writhed
the mouth/line on Innerface's head.
     Regaining her sense of self, and remembering the reason Innerface wanted
to talk to her, "Innerface, what is this ICE you speak of?"
     Innerface told the story of it to her.  It began with an artist...

                 *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

     There was once an artist, consumed by a mission.  His name was
unimportant, his accomplishment itself was nameless.  He spent his entire
life searching for the ultimate art form, the one piece of art that was
perfect in every detail, sight, sound, texture, and smell.  He lived back in
the days when cyberspace was still called VR, so he knew nothing of simstims
and socket-soaps; his world was one of physical realities.  So, he searched
the world for the art that would trigger the most intense emotions, the
greatest reactions from the widest audience.  Popular art was useless, it
would be ineffective in a single generation, he found. It had to have moving
pictures, he decided, to produce a mental model within the observer's mind
that could be used to manipulate emotions. Sound, music and a voice-over was
essential to help provoke the animal responses, anger, fight/flight
reactions, and fear.  He examined the music videos of the time and decided on
that as his medium with which to create the ultimate art form.  He gave it a
wide field of view, as in the ancient "movie palaces" of the last millenia.
And the subject was pure, unadulterated horror.  He used kilometers of film
and audio tape (tape?) to perfect the video.  Smell was a constant singed
hair smell, the kind of smell you never forget, no matter how long ago in
your memory.
     Innerface paused at this time to ensure Silverpain was comprehending
what he was explaining.
     This artist, this man, was mad.  He was so consumed by his madness, his
search for _THE_ most provocative, and empathic video extended to his daily
life.  No one could stand to be near him; his madness was contagious, it
followed him like a dark cloud.  The musician he employed committed suicide
after perfecting the score for the piece, about two thousand different
instruments, mostly synthesized.  The voice-over man retired shortly after
reading the artist's script over three hundred times, getting each syllable
just right.  The artist was ruthless, no one knows how many people he
subjected to his video while he was producing it.  Everyone who saw it went
mad, killed themselves, or regressed into a profound cataleptic state.

                 *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

     Innerface leaned closer to Silverpain, "No one who has seen that video
in the last hundred years has survived for long.  It was contained by the
government in an effort to prevent further deaths, to no avail.  The artist
had mailed many copies of the video and instructions on recreating the full
gear to hundreds of people.  It hasn't shown up again in the last decade,
until now.  Someone showed it to an AI, and now the AI is insane, no longer
able to produce ICE, black ICE, or even meaningful dialog.  The "ICE" it
produces now is unlike any ICE anyone's ever seen.  I have a copy of it in a
secure place, but I fear that I may not be able to transport it to a proper
laboratory.  I'm afraid I have been traced back by the samurai of H'Seng
Tai."

     Silverpain groaned inwardly, her role as fence had suddenly taken a
turn, was she now expected to protect her clients?  She hated to turn
Innerface away, but didn't want to catch any heat from H'Seng Tai, notorious
for indiscriminate assassinations.  "I'm sorry, but I can't protect you,
Innerface.  Try asking the ProTechs, they're good and have some connections
to the samurai guilds."  It was all she could do.

     "No, I'm not asking for protection, I need someone to hold on to the
sample of this mutated ICE.  Can you do that for an old friend?" The
mirror-face shimmered a moment, showing a projection of Innerface's real
physiognomy for a split second.

     Uncertain whether the image was real, or a memory, Silverpain accepted
his request.  "I can guarantee a safe period of no more than six weeks, is
that okay?"

     "Yes. Perfect.  That's... perfect."

     Eyeing him closely, "Good. Where is it? I can retrieve it."

     Innerface initiated a secure channel, flashing a message floating in
front of Silverpain's eyes, "SECURED COMMUNICATIONS REQUESTED BY: INNERFACE
ACCEPT, REFUSE, IGNORE?"

     Silverpain grinned at the archaic phrasing, and mentally selected
accept.  She buffered the information sent by Innerface, encrypted it with
an MPJ 16 byte variant- the most recent fad, and XOR'ed it with another
encryption key, 1023 bytes in length.  Satisfied as to its safety, she closed
the secure channel.  "Okay, I'll retrieve it today.  Anything else I should
know about it?"

     Innerface's eyes widened, "Yes.  I believe it's a simstim signal, so
watch yourself.  Run it a second and you'll find yourself madder than the AI
that watched the artist's movie."

     "Got it.  See you later, man.  Pay me when you can, you know my rules."
Looking back only to see Innerface nod and summon the droid waiter,
Silverpain glided out of the bar, back into the alley.  Rising up above the
vendors and pirates, silver trailing behind her like the wake of a speedboat
on a perfectly calm river.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
I guess this is copyright 1992, David Wood.
If I get no positive response from this, I won't finish it.
I have a plot in mind, beyond the familiar Neuromancer take-offs,
pretty big, but... If no one enjoys this I won't torture you with more.
(If I see another "It was a dark and stormy night" I'll shoot my CRT :-).)
Excuse the typos.

--
+-----------------------------+-----------------------------------------+
| dlwood@mailbox.syr.edu      | Gigs and gigs of NiCad memory, bummer.. |
| Cybernaut, with a thought.  | Why buy the leading brand; 90% hate it. |
+-----------------------------+-----------------------------------------+
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