No Trespassing (An original short story)

Trud took off her helmet, unbuckled her wrist monitors, and fell back into her chair. Well, there it was, then. The Tokyo deal was a wash – and all because of that bitch in Singapore. Trud could have choked her. Just like… like… THIS. "Here’s for you, bitch. And here… And here…." Trud happily wrung the Singapore bitch’s imaginary neck until, suddenly, noticing her hands, fluttering pointlessly before her, she stopped.

Oh, God - Jack. How was she going to explain this to Jack? He'd be inter-officing from Hawaii tomorrow to hear how the deal had gone down without a hitch. Trud shivered. She knew her boss all too well - his customary, quiet, "Look, Trud – don't give me no bullshit excuses, just tell me EXACTLY how you fucked up, that's all I want to know" might very well, this time, be followed up with an even quieter, "Oh, and Trud – call Accounting and tell them where you want your severance check sent."

Shaking, now, Trud pulled a bottle from the behind the stacks of magazines on the shelf next to her desk, poured out half a glass of its brown contents and, grimacing, gulped it down. The burning in her throat spread around and out and everywhere till her whole body felt wrapped in a mantle of comforting warmth and she thanked God she worked from home, now; she was never able to "medicate" this way when she was at the office.

But the liquor wasn’t working so well this time, she was warm, but she could still feel panic nibbling at her edges. Distraction. That’s what she needed – something to distract her. Talk to someone, maybe. Ron? Yeah, she’d tell Ron what was happening. Not that he could fix anything – hell, he probably wouldn’t even know what she was talking about, he never, really, took much interest in her business - but at times like this, when the going got rough, his quiet presence seemed to have an almost sedative effect on her.

She leaned over her desk and pressed the intercom button. "Ron!" she yelled into the box. "Ron!"

Nothing.

Goddamnit, where the hell was he when you needed him? "Ah, jeez, no rest for the weary…." wafted briefly through her mind, followed immediately by, "Ah, phooey on that." No. No self-pity, not for her. She stepped out of her office onto the path that lead past the kitchen door, around the house, directly to Ron's office. "Ro-ooo-n! Ro-ooo-n!"

When she got there, Ron was in his customary pose - helmet on, slouched in his chair, feet on the desk, his eyes closed, and otherwise all tangled up in wires, with sensors clipped, it seemed, to just about every available space on his body.

"Ron!" Trud turned his chair toward her and yanked his helmet off. Ron jerked up and opened his eyes wide.

"What? What?" Seeing it was only Trud, he relaxed back into his chair. "Why are you bothering me? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Busy with what?" Trud stood back, waiting, her hands on her hips.

"Fiddling with some ideas." Ron free-lanced for several advertising companies and often needed to come up with, he claimed, "original ideas." He glanced at Trud with irritation and, leaning forward, attempted to grab his helmet away from her.

"Wait," Trud held him off, "I need to talk to you."

Seeing that Trud was not going to give up, Ron sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at her.

"Well?" he asked, irritation oozing from him.

As Trud told Ron all about the deal and the Singapore bitch who'd screwed it up and how many new ones Jack was going to rip her tomorrow for not seeing it coming and nipping the bitch in the bud, she suddenly noticed that glassy look in his eyes that always indicated the absence of his virtual presence. She waved her hand in front of his face. "Hey! Hey, Ron! Yoo-hoo, Ronnie-baby, Ronnie-boy – you there? Or are you back with your whores cybering across the Net?"

"Oh, don't be stupid. Leave me alone!" Ron yelled, tearing his helmet from Trud's hands. Adjusting it on his head, he turned his chair abruptly so his back was facing her.

For an instant Trud wanted to scream, to tear all those wires and sensors off him and throw it all in the garbage. She wanted to communicate her self to him… to HIM… not to just his body. But she refrained from doing more than pulling herself together and muttering, "OK, Mr.‘Too-Busy-With-Ideas-To-Listen-To-Your-Wife.' We'll see who's 'stupid,'" and turning on her heel, stomped out of his office and back around the house to her own.

"Yessir, husband, mine – we shall just see who's ‘stupid.'"
Trud felt she knew what his "ideas" were pretty well. She was almost certain he spent most of his time in the "Cyber Sex" section of the web's "Psycho-Reality Universe." Otherwise why would he need so many sensors attached to him? Two snapped to her wrists did the job for her, and for most people. What he fastened to himself obviously weren't sensors, then, but probably those "Neural Signal Amplifiers" she'd heard about, the ones that delivered sensations to the organs faster than body chemical signals could. It wasn't difficult for Trud to find out Ron's "User Name." He wasn't very creative about it and used "RON74879" in all his web engagements. To obtain the password was more difficult, since Ron used "Thumb Print Recognition" software to Logon. Nothing was impossible though – every technology has a twin that does exactly opposite of its sibling. And for a while, now (without his knowledge, of course), Trud had Ron's "Thumb Print Double." With that and a "Synthesized Organic Finger Glove," she was able to generate a password. The only difficulty was the program also recorded "Finger Pressure Characteristics," and Trud had to make many attempts at pressing the "Thumb Print Double" into the sensor before the program authenticated her as her husband.

Once in she could, of course, choose from a number of "Prefabricated Virtual Characters" offered by the program, but their personalities were too general, their emotions and reactions too "cartoonish," and none of them allowed for personal perception so, instead, she decided to build her own. It wasn't as safe and, in some instances, could end up in heavy "V"-Neural Damage (so she'd heard), but she needed a more advanced character if she wanted to detect Ron's "V"-Life.

Trud downloaded the basic matrix from her "Astro Profile" and took a fifteen-minute psychological test to enhance her "Virtual Character" with "Advanced Sensory Features." Concluding with the addition of "Stealth" capabilities, she was ready to go.

First she visited several of the more trafficked Cyber sites, employing a "V"-Investigator to search for Ron's "trace." The results came up negative, so Trud rearranged her resources and ordered a search among all the heterosexual erotic and porn sites. Surprisingly, those results came back negative as well.

"Could he be gay?" she wondered. "No… no, he can't be." She knew her husband – though lazy and out of shape, when it came to the bedroom, he performed OK. Well, perhaps better than OK. Oh, what the hell – he was pretty damned good.

So, if he wasn't on any of the erotic or porn sites, then where WAS he? Perplexed, she hung for a while in "V"-Limbo, till, slowly, a thought came to her. Trud always "sensed" Ron much better than she "understood" him. Why not use the same approach in this "V"-Search?

Trud moved all available resources not only from Logical and Cognitive areas, but also from Visual, Kinesthetic, and Aural into Olfactory – thus becoming, for all intents and purposes, a "V"-Bloodhound.

Right away she picked up a scent and, allowing her nose to lead her through the labyrinths of the Web "Sub-Universe," finally reached a juncture where the scent became almost overwhelming. Quickly replacing resources and re-establishing "Visual," she saw she was deep inside the basketball-based "V"-Escape site, "V-Ball."

Immediately Trud saw Ron. But not the Ron she knew in her everyday life. Not the sluggish, overweight schlub who couldn't be bothered to cast more than tired words and irritated attitude at her.

This Ron was taller, tighter, stronger, and many times faster than the Ron she knew. With great surprise she noticed how easily, fluidly, precisely, he ran the court, passed, penetrated, jumped, layed-up and dunked.

Surprised and, then, mesmerized by this unexpectedly impressive version of her normally unassuming husband, Trud found herself inadvertently drawn into the excitement of the crowd, gasping and applauding in rhythm with the intricacies of the game. When Ron faked three players, rose to the basket and dunked with not only power, but authority, Trud – caught in the moment, unaware of her surroundings – let out a delighted scream far too real to be drowned out by the "V"-Screams of her fellow spectators and, instantly, felt at her elbow the presence of a "V"-Cop.

"User, you are trespassing on ‘Emotional Property.’ Remove yourself now."

"Wait a minute," Trud sputtered. "This is the property of my husband and, therefore, it's mine as well. I can be here if I want."

"User, your relationship with ‘Primary User' is without significance here. If ‘Primary User' wished to share this ‘Emotional Property' with you, he would have designated you as a ‘Shareable User.' The database does not indicate that he has."

"Why don't you check more carefully. ‘Account Number 267SDT-367673, Password: Labor.' If you look that up, you'll see he's not only my husband, but I have "Global Power of Attorney."

"'Global Power of Attorney' does not include rights over ‘Sub-Category: Emotional Property.' Remove yourself now.'"

"Oh, this is ridiculous. Look – see my husband? that's him down on the court, running the ball. Let me speak with him. Once he hears how stupid you're all being, he'll give you any permission needed for me to be here. It was, obviously, just an oversight that he didn't do that in the first place, I'm sure of it."

Trud could hear the "V"-Crowd becoming restless. "What's happening? What's going on?" flowed in waves around her.

"User, remove yourself NOW."

Trud sat back on the bench and glowered straight ahead. "No. I'm not going anywhere until I speak with my husband."

"SECURITY! SECURITY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY! INTRUDER ON THE EMOTIONAL PROPERTY!"

Suddenly, the game – the squeaks and grunts and ‘swishes' of which had been droning metronomically in the background throughout the interrogation – stopped, and all eyes from every direction now turned away from it and onto her. Mortified, Trud's only other awareness outside of finding herself, suddenly, surrounded on all sides by "V"-Cops, was of the sound of the game ball as, loosed, forgotten, it bounced and bounced – slower and slower – till it bounced a final, forlorn "tap" and rolled mutely out-of-bounds.

"EJECT THE INRUDER! EJECT THE INTRUDER!" Both teams and the audience chanted.

Trud felt herself being pulled and, then, yanked not only off the bench but completely off the site and, within moments found herself dangling ridiculously somewhere on what appeared to be the grey fringes of Cyberspace. Ripping off her helmet and wrist sensors, she jumped from her chair and ran out the door, back around to Ron's office.

"You bastard!" she yelled, shaking him vigorously and tearing off his helmet. "Why did you eject me from the game?"

Ron rubbed his eyes with both hands. "What game? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't play the idiot. I know all about you and your stupid ‘"V"-Ball'!"

Ron remained silent for a moment, pondering her, then:

"Wait – you mean that ‘intruder' was YOU? Funny, it didn't LOOK like you. How come it didn't, I wonder?" Ron got up and pushed past her out the door and around the house to the kitchen.

Oh – that's right, Trud suddenly remembered. She'd used the "Stealth" feature; even detected, it would still disguise her identity. The wind knocked out of her sails, she trailed after Ron and, passing behind him as he stopped at the refrigerator, plopped down at the kitchen table. Drumming her fingers distractedly on its blue-checkered tablecloth, Trud watched silently as he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer.

Damn, that was close, Ron mused to himself as he rifled noisily through the counter drawer for the bottle opener. Lord knows what would have happened if he'd not finally given in and, just to get the salesman off his back, purchased a month of his "Intruder Alert" services. Way too expensive, he'd been thinking himself a real moron for falling for it but, if you asked him now? Hell, the damned thing had just paid for itself ten times over.

Caught her just at the beginning of the game, it had. Before she'd had time to catch HIM.

Catch him with the Head Cheerleader in the women's showers right AFTER the game.

Finally locating the prodigal bottle opener, Ron slammed the drawer in with his hip and, throwing himself into the chair across the table from his pouting wife, pried the cap off his bottle with such vigor it flew half-way across the table to land just inches from Trud's still drumming fingers. Ron quickly grabbed for it and, making sure his movements were just conspicuous enough she wouldn't look away, put the bottle down, leaned forward in his chair and, straining around the edge of the table, aimed the bottle cap at the garbage can way across the kitchen, next to the sink… and threw. Spinning silently, the crimp-edged metal circle flew right past Trud's sulky scowl and landed with an extremely satisfying muffled "clink" at the bottom of the can.

'Oh, yeah, baby – in your FACE.'

Grinning, now, Ron relaxed back into the chair. Yeah, that "Intruder Alert" service was working out just swell. But, still – it'd been a close call; Trud had somehow managed to breech his "Primary Security System." Tomorrow he'd give that salesman a buzz and see what the guy had by way of "Automatic Revolving Security Definition Upgraders."

Grabbing the bottle again, Ron lifted it toward his wife and smiled broadly. "Cheers, Babe," he toasted and, craning his neck back, took a long, happy, greedy, pull.

Trud watched her husband for a few moments through, now, narrowed, unblinking, eyes, then quietly rose and went back to her office. She had some hacker friends she'd just remembered she needed to call.