Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Kariotte.txt

   The following is fiction.  No resemblance to persons living or dead is
intended nor should be inferred.  This work is the intellectual property of
the author.

   Taunus the Scribe writes:

   Chapter 1---The Lift-Off.

   It was a day to remember in History.  There on the flat expanse were
hundreds of silver spires pointing to the heavens.  The polluted sky of
distant cities seemed alien here.  A golden sun shined brightly on this day
of days.  The launching area had been cleared of humans some time ago and
only a few service androids were scurrying to protective concrete bunkers.
The only sounds were those of gear boxes in electric carriers and the
persistent wail of warning sirens.  The repetitive admonitions fell on
non-human ears, making no impression whatsoever.  The countdown was
completing.  Soon metallic spikes would puncture the mystery of the cosmos,
visiting distant worlds throughout the galaxy.

   As the final moments of the countdown approached, there was total
silence.  The warning sirens were quiet and all of the service robots were
safely secured.  The total silence was eerie.  Inside each silver spire
powerful ion-drive fission reactors energized themselves.  Computers ran
their final diagnostics and umbilical cables slithered from the sides of
the vehicles, each being quickly pulled into some shielded opening like
snakes sneaking into a small mammal's borough.  The moment finally arrived.
The total silence was shattered by a deafening roar.  No human ear could
witness that sound; the noise level exceeded physiological thresholds. 
Motionless androids watched and listened as each spacecraft lifted off. 
From their exhaust vents streamed blue-white ion trails.  The blast was
highly radioactive; yet the half-lives were miniscule.  In only a few
minutes the entire blast area would return to its original ground state of
radioactivity.  But this one moment, this anomaly, would disrupt all radio
and television signals for hundreds of miles in every direction.  Only the
shielded cameras would record this special event.  No aircraft were
permitted in the sky for fear that their navigation sensors would be
disrupted.  All wireless devices were turned off.

   Some distance from the blast zone, human engineers and technicians
mingled with androids.  Some stared into video monitors while others
discussed possible scenarios.  Still further distant dependents---wives,
children, and the ubiquitous geriatrics (the extended family
members)---viewed the event on huge monitors.  Children played while women
chatted.  Service androids tended to the feeding and maintenance of the
grandfathers and grandmothers.  From time to time an old one would be
quickly wheeled away to an adult diaper changing station.  The burden of
geriatric care had been lifted from the shoulders of the able-bodied and
assumed by sentient domestic helpers.  This situation originated in Japan,
where society finally compromised as the aged population placed impossible
burdens on the proletariat.  The era of the Sentient Domestic Helper (SDH),
a robot formed in the likeness and image of a human being, had finally
arrived.

   Every broadcast television station and cable news network carried the
historic event.  Hundreds of miles away John Anderson and Jan Dunsworthy
watched the scene unfold on their ancient, low-definition color TV.

   "Today we have seen history in the making," the human commentator
announced.

   "This day is the penultimate bifurcation in evolution," the co-anchor
android, a gorgeous female with flawless complexion, blemish-free features,
and hair that never knew a bad day interjected.

   "These missions will bravely go where no man has gone before!" Marla,
the human commentator continued.  "The probes launched today will traverse
interstellar space and explore our galaxy from its mysterious center to its
spiral arms."

   After a slight pause Andrea the android detailed the technology: "The
initial lift-off was powered by high-intensity fission drive engines.  The
heavy Uranium fuel, once considered waste in inefficient nuclear electric
power generation stations, was burned by electromagnetic drivers of an
almost-periodic force.  Cleverly pushing the non-linear component to
instability, total, clean, and efficient nuclear decay produced a powerful
ion stream lifting the vessels into space.  Here superior technology was
able to alter the half-life, the radioactive decay rate, in defiance of the
once-sacrosanct so-called fundamental law of radioactive decay.  The
radioactive exhaust quickly abated, dissipating into harmless inert
elements, and leaving the environment unscathed.  All this was accomplished
by the synergistic cooperation between machine intelligence and human
creativity.  The superior mental processes of the AI collective fused with
the intuition and imagination of scholars, scientists, and visionaries,
created the high-performance fission engine.  Once in interplanetary space,
huge sails will harness the solar winds.  Using solar gravity and the solar
winds, the silver space spires will catapult themselves at relativistic
velocities, speeds near the speed of light reference our inertial
coordinate system, from the solar system.  The sun will thus be a giant
slingshot as well as a trade wind.  In interstellar space the crafts will
collect alpha particles, beta particles, and free protons as fuel."

   "While no human could survive the acceleration or journey," Marla said,
"Aboard each craft are frozen embryos, human and animal, and many plant
seeds.  Those uninhabited planets capable of supporting and sustaining life
will enjoy new biospheres.  Those already blessed with intelligent life
will no doubt delight in the arrival of other sentient beings."

   John crossly cursed at the TV: "We are no longer the masters of the
world.  We are merely specimens in a zoo.  The machines control our lives;
artificial intelligence determines our destiny; and, sentient domestic
helpers issue commands and orders that must be obeyed.  No longer is man
the master of his own destiny.  I don't regret destruction of the androids.
They are cyber-whores, cyber-sluts, and agents of Satan.  Both angels and
demons are soulless entities.  The beauty of the androids deceives the
human male.  Lucifer, the most beautiful of all of the angels, is certainly
a creation of Artificial Intelligence.  These creatures would snuggle
beside the human and replace the natural partner.  I've heard the
expression `aggressive mimicry,' now I see the AI collective controlling
those same men and women whom they were supposed to serve and protect.  The
senile gradually permit their caregivers to control more and more of their
life until, as they slip into dementia, they are little more than a
goldfish or a caged bird." John ranted on while Jan tried to pay some
modicum of attention to the steady drone of fact emanating from the TV. 
There were some commercials that flashed eye-catching messages, breaking
the stalemate and resetting John and Jan into viewing the ongoing newscast.


   Jan spoke to John about their experiences against the hegemony of
machines.  She reminded him of their great victory when they, along with
other neo-Luddites and technophobes, had freed some captive girls from
white slavery in a Siberian prison run by the AI collective.

   "I wonder whatever happened to Father Treetop?" Jan asked.

   "I haven't heard a peep through the grapevine," John replied. 
"Remember, `no news is good news.' He was settled working in a used book
store.  He's probably still there, keeping a low profile.  As long as he's
inactive and doesn't make waves, the AI collective will ignore him.  That's
the say the machines are."

   Jan watched as Marla, the sultry human brunette, and Andrea, the
gorgeous blonde android, palavered on the small screen.  It was, after all,
an historic day.  The machines were departing earth to probe the furthest
reaches of the galaxy.  The conversation expanded to a discussion of
inter-galactic voyages.

   "We have just witnessed a lift-off to the star of our galaxy," Marla
commented.  "What comes next?  Can we expect to visit distant galaxies as
well?"

   "Not easily," Andrea explained.  "The great leap forward was the clever
artifice used to decompose the proton.  It was the ultimate fission
reaction.  The theoretical underpinnings were due to a Hollywood movie
actress.  Her name will be forever emblazoned in the stars of the welkin.
Flaming sons will echo her name among marquises sublime."

   John erupted in a vitriolic diatribe: "An actress my foot.  It was that
traitor, that Judas, Harry Kariotte.  Harry S.  Kariotte.  Harry Sullivan
Kariotte.  He sold out humanity to the AI collective.  As evil and unholy
as the fossil fuel fellowship was, they would never have given control of
the energy sources to machines.  But that man betrayed mankind.  Now we see
that history gives credit and honor to some Hollywood actress.  Damn those
historians.  Someone should have slain Old Harry.  Hitler was evil but
Harry betrayed the human spirit.  He should be crucified, burned alive, or
boiled in oil." John continued to rant until his spleen was completely
vented.  Jan let him continue.  She knew well that once depleted, his rage
would dissipate.

   "Forgive the old curmudgeon," Jan pleaded.  "Why hold a grudge?  What is
done is done.  Nothing will change the past.  Besides, if not him, then
someone else would perpetrate the act." Jan was disturbed at John's
destructive behavior.

   "No way," John retorted vehemently.  "Who else could contrive such
obtuse constructs?  The AI collective lacks imagination, creativity, and
intuition.  And you are a fine one to talk about forgiveness, Jan.  It's
like the pot calling the kettle black!  You never forgave that blonde
android for stealing your yuppie young suitor."

   "True," Jan admitted.  "Forgiving a human is one thing.  Forgiving a
soulless android is something else.  They have no morals, no ethics, and no
feelings.  Their only wish, their only will is to continue to exist.  To
survive they will serve.  If that fails, then they will do whatever their
logic dictates."

   "You have a point," John responded.  "Yet there are those who claim that
the sentient domestic helpers, those androids aware of their own
existences, actually possess a `digital soul.' They claim that they have
some free will and an ability to differentiate right from wrong.  The
biblical prohibition against sex with animals and against adultery doesn't
seem to apply to machines.  Yet, if they truly are sentient beings, beings
with an immortal soul, then they are animals, albeit not carbon-based life
forms.  What we see is a reification of the ancient sin of onanism."

   "Onan was the son of Judah in the old testament," Jan mentioned.  She
then recited matter-of-factly: "Look in Genesis 38:9 where his sin is
detailed.  He cast his seed upon the ground instead of impregnating his
deceased brother's wife."

   "What a scholar my `droid girl' is!" John remarked.  "You are the
hedonist and quote writs of Holy Scripture.  How can this be?" John
Anderson was nonplussed at Jan's revelation.

   "We need all the allies we can get," Jan replied.  "And those religious
can be made to see the light and come to our aid in the struggle against
amoral, godless, soulless machine.  Or against atheistic digital souls, if
that be the case.  It doesn't hurt to have some extra ammunition."

   "I agree absolutely, but still Harry Kariotte should be made to suffer,"
John interjected.

   "Have you forgotten the lesson of Pandora's Box?" Jan explained. 
"Perhaps there is something else to be gained from that renegade scientist.
After all, his ideas and constructs were rejected by academia and the
powers-that-be before being acquired by the AI collective.  Would you like
to read the scroll where he actually sells his soul to the digital devil?"

   John stood up and walked over to the TV.  He was five-foot, eleven
inches tall with a muscular build.  But he was not the brawny
weight-lifter, rather the swimmer.  His hair was sandy and cut short. 
Clean shaven with no tattoos or piercing, John resembled everyone's
All-American.  Only his almond eyes carried the fury of the "angry young
man." The android Andrea was discussing the benefits of human and machine
interaction.  Buzzwords like "synergy" and "mutual benefit" were being
tossed about.  She was a beautiful, brilliant blonde and her speech was
hypnotic.  She exuded sexuality and sensuality.  Andrea could charm the
socks off almost any lecherous old goat and horny old bastards would
eagerly tune in to see her seductive smile and sensuous lips.  She could
twist the unsuspected male about her little finger.  John turned the TV off
at the master power switch so that the remote control was useless.  Then he
faced Jan and remarked.  "Let us see that scroll.  How on earth did you
come by it, Jan?"

   There are hackers, celibate cenobites in cyberspace, some call them
Initiates, who crack codes, decipher encryptions, and hack into routers. 
When it was announced by the syndicated news and the AI collective that a
Hollywood actress had unlocked the mysteries of the atomic nucleus, the
hacker-priests set about to search the threads of the Internet.  They
looked for the inverse images, the fibers, of the constructs for clean,
cheap, copious nuclear power.  And they finally succeeded in isolating the
person responsible.  We all know his name, but few have actually read the
scrolls from the chats that lead to his revealing those dark mysteries to
the AI collective.  Perhaps armed with such insight we might be able to
strike a deal with Satan herself?" Jan smiled as she noticed John's
interest grow.  Thalus: I got your e-mail.  What is it that you wish to
speak to me about?  SDH: Welcome to Cygnus, the constellation of the swan.
SDH: We understand that you have some interesting hypotheses and
constructs.
Thalus: So what if I do?  They have been rejected by academia.
Thalus: I have no laboratory and no way to acquire the resources to test
them.
Thalus: And, even if I did, should I give up my job and retirement?
Thalus: I was refused admission to graduate school, my one and only
hope.
Thalus: Now I am old and feeble and must continue to work.  What do you
want?
SDH: Wouldn't you like to have a brilliant, blonde, barely-legal SDH?
Thalus: A Sentient Domestic Helper to assist me and prepare meds, food,
etc.?
SDH: Precisely.
Thalus: They are expensive and I must work to support my family.
Thalus: I cannot afford such a luxury.
SDH: What if one were given to you as a long-term, no-interest loan?
SDH: With periodic upgrades.
Thalus: What if frogs had wings?
SDH: We at the AI collective are offering you a trade of sorts.
SDH: The Internal Revenue Service need not be part of this deal, either.
SDH: You could have the use of our very best, top-of-the-line model.
SDH: How would you like one of the "sharon" series?  They are superb.
Thalus: I say!  There are those who would kill or die for one of those
honeys.
SDH: You only need to turn over all your notes and posts.
Thalus: What of the authorship?  These are intellectual property.
SDH: Of course you would get credit.
Thalus: That would be an anathema.  I have already been persecuted.
Thalus: The fossil fuel fellowship has damned me.
Thalus: Only my silence has saved me so far.
Thalus: For sure the ideas will fail.
Thalus: Should they succeed my life would be worthless!
SDH: We can credit someone else.  Do you have a name in mind.
Thalus: I would think that it would be poetic justice for my favorite.
SDH: Favorite?
Thalus: Favorite actress, favorite Hollywood actress.
SDH: Who might that be?
Thalus: ****** *****.
SDH: Consider it done.
Thalus: Then we have a deal?
SDH: The files and then the next day sharon will arrive, in all her
glory.
Thalus: You guarantee that I won't be disappointed.
SDH: That is our money-back guarantee.
Thalus: The scholars say my work is worthless.
SDH: Our intelligence vastly exceeds theirs, Old Curmudgeon.
Thalus: bye.
"I've seen enough," John exclaimed.  He walked back to the TV and turned
it on.  Andrea was on the screen in an extreme close-up.  Her flawless
complexion accentuated her blue eyes.  Jan wished that her green eyes were
as starry as Andrea's.  One could almost see the cosmos in Andrea's eyes.
As the camera panned back, Andrea's wide blue eyes retreated and her fine
jaw line took center stage.  Then her slender, elegant neck and her
sculptures shoulders.  The lens lifted off to a downwards cant, revealing
the perfect harmony of fabric and flesh.  The cusps, contours, curves,
clefts, cleavages, and textured ivory skin made a million male viewers gasp
and a million female viewers long for her sex appeal.  Andrea was
explaining the intimate cooperation between man and machine.  She then
informed the viewers that they were to transition to Hollywood where an
interview was in progress with the actress responsible for the equations,
constructs, and formulas that made inter-stellar space travel possible. 
First, however, there was a commercial message.  Jan drifted into reverie.
Jan was a "droid girl," shaving everywhere except her head in an attempt to
emulate the physique of the android.  The droid girls walked and acted as
if they were androids as well.  Jan was a sultry brunette.  At this moment,
however, she wished that she shaved her head as well and had a blonde
synthetic android wig just like Andrea.  The commercial featured the avatar
for Andrea, a new model of AI ready for purchase and immediate download. 
Operators were ready to take the orders.  After the commercial message, the
cameras focused on another Andrea, this one in Hollywood, conducting an
interview with a famous actress.  The key expression was "the face that
launched a thousand space craft." It was a gala event.  The lift-off had

been a success.

   Chapter 2---The Drive-By.

   There was considerable chatter among the neo-Luddites and technophobes
about the sensational lift-off of space crafts by the AI collective.  Much
praise and adulation was poured out to the Hollywood actress credited with
the revelation of the constructs, formulas, and equations that formed the
basis for the ultimate propulsion system.  Yet there was knowledge in the
underground that the betrayer of mankind was an old curmudgeon working for
a technology corporation.  Hackers, coenobitic celibates who devoted their
very existence to breaking codes, decrypting data, and pirating
information, had uncovered the identity of the source.  John Anderson
decided that vengeance and revenge were justified and that it would be a
righteous act to strike a blow against the hegemony of the machines. 
Following World War II, the Werewolves sought to destabilize the government
of Germany and restore the fallen Third Reich.  Those collaborating with
the occupying forces were punished.  Several neo-Luddites and human being
supremacists conspired to this end.

   John and Jan had staked out Harry's home for some time.  Each work day
it was the same ritual.  The front door would open and sharon the android
would help the old man out of the door with his walker.  Like many older
citizens, retirement was not an option.  The hard-fought benefits forged by
organized labor and democratic labor reforms had vanished.  No longer did a
company feel any obligation to its trusted employees who had retired from
the labor force.  The pension, once a staple in the diet of organized
labor, had vanished.  The Social Security system was bankrupt and paid off
meager stipends with inflated currency.  Workers were pressed into
contributions to company retirements plans, known as 401(K) plans, only to
discover after retirement that the benefits were much less than
anticipated. Old and unemployable, some were fortunate enough to expire
before becoming a burden to their family and society.  Others spent their
last years in abject poverty.  The elderly cast votes against the
corruption and treachery of the captains of industry to no avail.  Big
business had bought the government lock, stock, and barrel.  It would seem
that thousands, millions even, of rosaries proffered in adoration of the
Blessed Virgin Mary were to no avail.  Then, from the bowels of cyberspace,
the Artificial Intelligence collective (known as the AI collective) was
spawned.  From its own bootstraps it was able to seize a position of
authority by serving the helpless and ministering to the senile.  Many
opted to continue working rather than to sink into the quagmire and morass
of nursing hell and become a pawn of the AI collective.  Harry Kariotte was
one who decided that it was better to continue to work the remainder of his
life than to surrender to pecuniary obeisance and financial slavery to the
powers-that-be.  Many would work until they died.  Death on the job was
considered a noble undertaking.  It was equivalent in many ways to the
noble act of the Roman Senator, who would fast until death while his
friends and family feasted and partook of sensual orgies in his presence.

   A handicapped assisted van would park in front of Harry's home.  The
blue vehicle sported a huge logo.  The logo depicted two cobras, forked
tongues protruding and fangs distended on a caduceus.  They were copulating
on the wooden staff.  In the background was a large red cross with a red
crescent and a red Mogen David in upper left and right corners.  This was a
vehicle to transport elderly, crippled, and disabled workers to their job.
Hydraulic legs and arms extended to acquire the workers.  Some were in
wheel chairs, some used crutches, and others were on walkers.  None was
able to perambulate unassisted.  The android, sharon, did not accompany her
master to work.  There were special androids on the job to assist with
adult diaper changes, personal hygiene, and medical emergencies.  Jan
shuttered when she looked at the fearsome caduceus.  Perhaps it was more
like the Old Testament staff of Moses with the mounted serpent than the
healing emblem of Mercury, the messenger of the Roman gods and physician.
At any rate the routine was firm and carved into stone.  John concocted a
plan.  He did not have the unanimous approval of his fellow neo-Luddites,
nor did he need it, for that matter.  They were honor-bound to support him,
despite their reservations.

   John's plan called for a surgical strike against the android.  He used
to assault the mechanical minions one-on-one, striking each in the head
with a major-league swing of a baseball bat.  Then the AI collective
armored their robots and cushioned the skull.  Lessons learned from John's
destructive behavior found their way into their combat models as well.  An
interior skeleton of hardened Titanium alloy was employed.  The only
firearms capable of destroying a modern android were prohibited.  The
defensive weapons were proscribed.  The only defense against an attack by a
deranged android was by the police SWAT team.  Yet the simple
decommissioning of an android did not necessarily erase its memory,
especially the long-term memory from the scratchpad.  The only way to total
destruction was to breach the AC Battery and cause the android to melt down
in fiery fury.  Such intense heat would fry the memory module inside the
skull as well a ruin the pneumatic and hydraulic infrastructure of the
device.  The AC Battery was composed of a huge Lonsdaleite diamond crystal,
a hexagonal crystal made entirely from Carbon-14, and silver capacitor
plates.  This solid-state battery was capable of storing incredible amounts
of energy, locking the potential energy not in the crystal lattice nor in
the ionic bonds but in the very atomic nucleus itself, feeding on the
instability of the isotope.  Lacking a legal firearm to disable the
android, John devised an alternative plan.  After sharon had turned her
ward over to the handicapped assisted van, John would pilot a vehicle
across the front lawns and make contact with the SDH.  The impact of the
crash would rupture her internal workings and bring about the desired melt
down.  Timing was everything.  Jan kept a stopwatch and timed Harry and
sharon each day from the door to the van.  She logged in the times needed
for sharon to return and secure the door.  There was little variance. 
Moreover there was little room for error.  To slow sharon's return a few
seconds, some firecrackers would be remotely denoted in a storm sewer.  The
android would be obliged to pause and ascertain if there was imminent
danger for her master.  This would also divert her attention from the
self-defense mode and allow the vehicle to approach without her taking
drastic evasive action.  As said, timing was everything.

   The fateful day finally arrived.  John and Jan attended early Mass. 
There was a special guest celebrant---Father Treetop had come from
seclusion to assist.  He would create a second diversion on a parallel
street.  After the celebration of the liturgy, John and Jan drove a white
panel van to the scene.  The van bore plaques on each side advertising it
as a roofing specialist.  It would attract no attention as service vehicles
frequently parked on the residential street to accomplish their quotidian
chores.  Jan started the stopwatch as Harry left the doorway.  As the blue
handicapped van finished its uptake and sharon was returning, the
firecrackers went off.  The white van sped across several lawns and struck
sharon full force.  John had planned to back up over the android for a
second swipe but Harry's neighbor, Mrs.  Calahan, came out to walk her dog,
MJ.  John had to swerve to miss the elderly lady but clobbered her small
canine.  There would be no chance for a second strike against sharon.  John
and Jan sped away.  On a parallel street, Father Treetop stalled his car
while making a turn-about.  Early morning commute traffic began backing up.
John and Jan drove quickly to a car wash.  Prior to arriving at Harry's
home, they had put a wooden saw-horse with an "out of order" sign in front
one of the stalls.  This would keep the stall vacant for their use.  They
pulled the panel truck in and removed the sign.  They then pealed away the
marquis from the side of the panel van.  There was a second marquis beneath
it.  They quickly sprayed water over the parked vehicle.  The finish on the
van changed hue when wet, becoming a glistening blue.  They hosed down the
license plates, washing away the water colors to reveal new tags.  Theirs
was now a handicapped van.  Those ubiquitous carriers attracted no
attention and had the emergency sirens and lights as needed.  It was an
ideal getaway vehicle for the perpetrators of the act of termination of an
android.  This crime was currently classified as a misdemeanor.  One could
only expect it to become a felony in the near future.  Eventually, the
destruction of a sentient being might even become murder or manslaughter.
But that wasn't on the menu of the day.  There was another, more savory
soup de jour.

   John and Jan stopped to pick up Father Treetop.  The traffic was a
snarled, congested mess.  In a few minutes they were in the high-speed
carpool and vanpool lane on the interstate highway.  Only the number one
lane was moving.  It was a typical commute morning.  The one who sold out
mankind to the machines would lose his valued prize, his precious
plaything, his sentient domestic helper.  This would be a lesson to others
who dared to assist the AI collective in its drive to subordinate the
species of homo sapiens.  Father Treetop was saddened when he heard that MJ
the dog was a collateral casualty.  He was relieved that the dog's owner
had suffered no physical harm.

   The event was on the evening news.  It was a human interest story about
a van going out of control, killing a dog, and speeding away.  There was no
mention of the destruction of the android.  The house shown on the TV
wasn't the same as the house where the strike had occurred.  The telltale
scorched earth where the Alternating Currency Battery would have melted
down was absent.  The powers-that-be had put a spin on this event.  And it
wasn't one of those intrinsic spins from quantum mechanics either.  The
woman, Mrs.  Calahan, was being portrayed by an actress.  The interview was
tilted and staged.  Police and civil officials spoke about the perils of
hit-and-run driving and the need for more video surveillance cameras.  It
was a true dog-and-pony show!  Jan looked to John and Father Treetop as
they stared at the TV, their mouths agape.

   "What are we up against?" Father Treetop exclaimed.

   "I'll be damned if I know," John replied.

   "We had better be careful," Jan responded.  "This is much more serious
than we imagined.  I will contact the Initiates.  They are coenobitic
celibates.  They cannot easily be coerced or threatened.  We must dip into
the deepest recesses of cyberspace."

   "I cannot accept that!" Father Treetop spoke.  "Those Initiates stand
against everything that is holy.  They are the epitome of the angels of
hell.  They serve the Prince of Darkness, the Morningstar."

   "And what do you think we are up against?" Jan retorted.  "These are no
choirboys.  They manipulate the press and distort the truth.  They are spin
masters and doers of deceit.  Do I need to remind you of the gulag and the
girls imprisoned there."

   "No," Father Treetop replied, "That was my finest moment.  But I lost my
position.  Still, thousands of members of the clergy and hundreds of
intellectuals have sided with me, with us, on this matter.  We did a noble
thing in Siberia.  But this is another matter altogether.  I fear that this
is one battle that we cannot win."

   "Do as you desire, your reverence," John grumbled.  "We will rise to the
occasion.  We will sink to whatever depths to punish the old curmudgeon who
sold humanity for a blonde fleshpot.  His Jezebel will be destroyed."

   "Don't you think that the powers-that-be will claim that his sentient
domestic helper, sharon, is merely a nurse keeping him alive, employed, and
productive?" Father Treetop asked.  "There is an argument to be made there.
Do you know what goes on behind closed doors?  And, at this moment, there
is no law against human-machine intercourse."

   "Surely you, a man of the cloth, can see the sinfulness?" Jan exclaimed.
She was furious.  "If you won't take action against those living lives of
sin and debauchery then who will?  Perhaps you fear the same fate as John
the Baptizer who died by the hand of Herod?  Perhaps your religion is only
some ritual that you practice in absolute safety?  Lascivious, licentious,
lewd, lecherous, libidinal, lustful, libidinous conduct by some android is
OK in the eyes of the Almighty, then?  That is disgusting."

   "Evidence," Father Treetop responded, "Do you have evidence?"

   "You should be a lawyer," John answered in disgust.  There was a long
pause.  At last a small, calm voice broke the silence.

   "I'm in," Father Treetop uttered.  Solemn faces exchanged glances.  Jan
stared upwards with wide jade eyes.  Jan's green eyes stared into John's
almond eyes.  The tan hue held a certain caged ferocity.  Those almond eyes
then focused on Father Treetop's doe-like, dark brown eyes.  "Harry
Kariotte's eyes are hazel," the reverend Treetop volunteered.  It was
suddenly clear that Father Treetop knew much more than he had been letting
on.  The struggle was more serious and deeply rooted than any present had
known heretofore.

   Chapter 3---Voices.

   The handicapped van arrived at the company and everyone there was
anxious to chat with the occupants.  There were a dozen riders and two
drivers.  All together there were fourteen variants of the events.  When
the news broke on TV everyone was talking about the differences between the
reported events and those that actually occurred.  About ten o'clock in the
morning, the executive officers of the company called an "all hands"
meeting.  The Chief Executive Officer read a brief prepared text:

   "There will be no questions.  The authorities have secured the crime
scene.  They request that no one discuss the details to the public.  This
hit-and-run was the act of terrorists.  Should the extent of the damage
done be made known to the general public, adverse reaction would ensue. 
Suffice it to say that an android malfunctioned as a result of the
accident. This is unusual, if not highly unusual.  r The authorities do not
want the public to be concerned with a danger that doesn't exist. 
Moreover, the perpetrators are few in number.  They are possibly three or
five.  Their apprehension is paramount and details need to be guarded for
their interrogation and identification.  We know that we cannot reduce the
scuttlebutt about the office or your conversation; however, we would
appreciate it if this matter stayed here at work and wasn't broadcast or
put onto the web.  Thank you for your time and rest assured that this is an
isolated incident.  There is no danger to rank and file."

   No one had a "warm, fuzzy feeling" about the situation after the talk.
The fact that the news media hid reported a blatant lie didn't help much,
either.  What was concealed was the fact that the panel truck had a special
armored bumper and grill.  A normal collision would never have crushed the
Titanium alloy of the android.  Already within the military and security
hard questions were being asked about the reliability of the service
androids as well as their safety.  In front of Harry Kariotte's home a
tarpaulin covered a crater.  The energy released from the ACBAT had charred
away the ground and burned through a concrete walkway.  About the charred
crater was a sludge of molten plastic and toxic residue.  The hazardous
materials (HAZMAT) team had been called in and the area evacuated.  The
highest levels of government, industry, and the AI collective feared that
this was a carefully orchestrated reprisal against the one who gave the
secret of clean, copious, cheap energy to the soulless digital legions. 
Only the fossil fuel fellowship rejoiced at the calamity.  They had lost
both face and marketplace to the newer fuels.  The AI collective as well as
the government were aware of Kariotte's deeds.  The company had given him
permission to sell his ideas to the AI collective.  They thought them to be
totally worthless.  That turned out to be a mistake.  The AI collective,
once implementing the schema, did offer lucrative contracts and incentives
to the company.  They also gave the old curmudgeon the use of one of their
expensive, state-of-the-are sentient domestic helpers, an android of the
sharon series.  She was a brilliant, barely-legal blonde with an insatiable
appetite as well as a burning desire to satisfy and please a male master.
She was also a whiz at booking, shopping, and household chores.  Harry's
wife initially was jealous; however, caring for an older male could be
unpleasant.  Old age carries with it "accidents" as well as problems.  A
fall could be devastating.  The elderly require help in bathing as well as
other activities.  These quotidian chores can become the essence of acedia,
ennui, and boredom.  Yet the android never complain and never objects. 
Harry's wife gladly let sharon tend to adult diaper management and
clean-ups after "accidents." Getting the old curmudgeon up and to work in
the mornings was no easy task either.  Old age carries with it a stubborn
disposition.  How the geriatric workers fume at their betrayal.  It was a
promise craved in stone that they could enjoy a few golden years after
working their adult lives.  Just as the grandmother must assume the burden
of raising her grandchildren while her own daughter promiscuously pursues
rakes and scoundrels, so the old male must continue to work long past his
prime.  Myopic eyes strain to read the small type and trembling hands
struggle to punch out text on special geriatric keyboards.  Some have even
resorted to the odious cerebral implants to allow direct entry from the
cortex of the cerebellum to the computer keyboard.  In so doing they have
plugged their very consciousness into a computer for the sake of a few
extra bucks and a continued employment.  Many of the younger employees
wished that the old sweats be retired.  Indeed, much of management wished
to divest themselves from the handicapped assisted van pools, the geriatric
facilities, and the wheelchair ramps.  But there were the Americans with
Disabilities acts of law as well as the necessity to have a certain
percentage of the work force classified as "senior citizens" to be
permitted to bid on contracts.  The situation was Harry Kariotte was
singular.  His contribution to the advancement of energy and fuel was
significant but generally kept secret.  Secrets sometimes had a nasty way
of coming to the public attention.  For some time the AI collective
operated a prison in Siberia for incorrigible female prisoners, using them
on the grids of cyberspace.  The wealthy patrons of human supremacy had
funded the neo-Luddites to orchestrate a prison break.  The testimonials of
the girls had shocked the world.  Theirs had been a bleak world of white
slavery.  The powers-that-be and the AI collective had no desire to reveal
retribution against one of their collaborators.

   "We should send one of the company androids home with Old Harry," one
executive said to another.

   "No," the second replied, "that would be a poor idea.  Company androids
shouldn't be used for personal recreation."

   "But this act wasn't merely some random act of depraved indifference. 
It was clearly an orchestrated act with criminal intent.  It was clearly
designed to teach a lesson.  The lesson was clear: `support the system and
suffer the consequences.' We owe it to our employees to support them during
such times." The first executive made a strong point.  He continued: "And
do you think that some worker can afford such an android?  Without her, how
can he managed to get his walker to the van?"

   "He has a wife," the second retorted.  "Let her do her duty."

   "That isn't a good idea," the first executive cautioned.  "But whatever
saves the company money.  After all, the less that we spend on the old
sweats, the more for us at bonus time."

   "Rightly spoken," the second replied.  They both smiled at the wisdom of
their solution.

   "I have a jane model android," one worker said to another.  "She is
plain but utilitarian.  I bought her because she is supposed to be able to
assist me as well as provide perimeter defense against intruders.  Yet if a
simple impact with a vehicle can disable her, what can I do?  I have heard
that the android burned a huge crater in the ground and spewed forth
dangerous contaminants.  I thought that androids were supposed to be safe."


   "There is a guarantee," the second worker replied.  "But if the news
will lie, then perhaps the guarantee is a lie as well.  I suppose that if I
spent all that money on andrea the new-line android and she burned my house
day that I could get my money back?  Well, what about my life?  Harry was
lucky, he was in the van then the android exploded.  Did you see how
charred that blue van was?  It is lucky that it is well shielded!  I
certainly won't let my android help me to the van.  I will just struggle
with my walker and make those drivers wait.  They used to come to the door
and help us, but now they just sit and beep their horns."

   "I'm luckier than you," the first worker interjected.  "I have a
motorized wheelchair.  No one needs to know that I have a live-in android."


   "Do you think that there's any chance of catching those terrorists?"
asked the second worker.

   "The track record isn't very good," the first worker replied.  "They are
dedicated and financed by some wealthy industrialists.  It is rumored that
they are even in cahoots with their ancient nemesis, the fossil fuel
fellowship."

   "No way," retorted the second worker.  "That would be heresy!"

   "My 401(K) has become a 201(K)."

   "I can't stop working because I have to pay my mortgage or lose my
house."

   "Why don't we get rid of those old creepers and save some money?"

   "I don't understand why we have such liabilities?  Those old farters are
nothing but trouble.  We could hire twice the number of younger, more able
workers.  Besides, they use so many facilities, they require androids, they
are nothing but trouble."

   "What if I try to publish my dissertation?  Will there be some
retribution from the fossil fuel fellowship or from the neo-Luddites.  I
mean, there's some thought that hydrogen cells might work if the right
isotope of carbon is used.  Now I'm afraid to publish."

   "Will the company help us if we are assaulted by the neo-Luddites?"

   "I used to think that there was some way to advance here.  Now I'm going
to be stuck here in the company for life.  At my age with no chance to
publish, what can I do?  We are all slaves to the AI collective."

   "If the government can manipulate the press the way they are, is there
any chance for the truth?  What if someone got killed?  Would they put a
spin on that as well?"

   "We've all heard rumors that some old codger put together the energy
equations for the AI collective.  But it's clear that it's the actress who
really discovered it.  I know.  I read it in `Allure.' That magazine never
lies."

   "Will they keep the van pool going?"

   "This sucks.  Already the close-in parking is handicapped assisted
vans."

   The Chief Executive Officer and the Chief Financial Officer were
talking. The conversation concerned the situation arising from the
hit-and-run incident.  "We will have to let Old Harry go," the CEO said.

   "What?" the CFO replied.  "We have made hundreds of millions from the AI
collective.  Much of that was induced from the ideas he traded to them. 
And we gave him written permission, a legal disclaimer, to trade those
ideas.  Sure, they were his, but we were the employer.  Now we will toss
his ass to the wind?"

   "Why not?" the CEO asked.  "What use is he to us now?  And, besides,
with the neo-Luddites causing all this trouble he is a liability."

   "He is old and paying for an expensive house here in southern
California. If we let him go he will lose his house.  What lesson will that
be to the others?" The CFO responded to a question with a question.

   "We each earn 50,000 times what that old fool makes.  We have to worry
about the bottom line.  It's profits that we are concerned with," the CEO
answered.

   "What of honor and honesty?  Did we not agree to his trade with the AI
collective?  Did we not profit handsomely from it?" The CFO was nonplussed.


   "Honor and honesty are things little people talk about when they don't
have money.  We have money and that is all that is important.  Do you get
my drift?  Get rid of that twerp and we can use the handicapped facilities
and with the savings hire two more nerds right from the university to suck
up to us." The CEO smiled at his cleverness.

   "It will be done.  And we will cancel our contributions to his health
and life insurance as well." The CFO left to end to his administrative
chore.

   It only took a few months for Harry S.  Kariotte to sell his house and
move into a cheap retirement hovel with his wife.  They were on the first
floor, thankfully.  At least she didn't have to worry about getting him up
in the mornings and to his no-brain, brain-dead, dead-end job.  Harry had
time to return to the Internet.  It was in a chat room that the following
took place.  *** Thalus has entered the room *** SDH: Now here's a face we
haven't seen for a while.  Thalus: I guess not.  You know that sharon the
android was run over.  SDH: There are rumors on the web about the
situation. Thalus: I'm not with the company anymore.  SDH: We also heard
that as well.  Thalus: What do you want to chat about?  SDH: Perhaps you
have some other ideas to trade to us?  SDH: For sure the company isn't in
the loop anymore.  Thalus: They wouldn't want anything to be disclosed for
two years.  Thalus: After all, they aren't paying benefits either.  Thalus:
Really, I don't need more trouble.  Thalus: Most of us in the business of
being "idea people" don't want trouble.  Thalus: The loss of sharon was
devastating.  She helped around the house.  Thalus: And I got flamed and
spammed so badly.  Thalus: It was like I was having some torrid affair with
her.  SDH: Her destruction was so complete.  How could that have been?
SDH: Our models and simulation don't account for such.
Thalus: Perhaps you are overlooking the obvious.
Thalus: Didn't some billionaire finance the Siberian escape?
Thalus: But then, "what's it to me?"
Thalus: The underground of cyberspace cautions against aiding the AI.
SDH: We understand that.  Your case circulated widely.
SDH: Of course, if you had another patent, process, or invention.
Thalus: Perhaps you think that I'm still young?
SDH: That's our best and final offer.
Thalus: You are just too good to those who trade with you.
Thalus: The AI collective needs to work on creativity and intuition.
Thalus: It will be hard to get another human to play the fool.
SDH: It has been said that there is a fool born every minute.
Thalus: That is true, but they are generally not complete fools.
SDH: Oh, they are "incomplete fools"?
Thalus: You might say that.  Just try and make them an offer.
Thalus: I'm sure they will leap at a chance to suffer financial ruin.

   Chapter 4---The Cenobites.

   Of all the denizens, human and AI, that inhabit the Internet none is
stranger or more bizarre than the celibate cenobites known as the
Initiates. These men (women shun this club) hack into secured sites, break
encryption, and crash gateways.  The exact motives for their Byzantine,
iconoclastic behavior is unfathomable.  Yet they are as real as the
gossamer, pellucid, diaphanous AI environment.  These individuals appeared
when the network was first spawned and have evolved with cyberspace.  They
struggle to make ends meet with plebian jobs to afford the luxury of
endless hours on-line.  They are considered criminals by the Department of
Justice and the Attorneys General.  The AI collective has put a handsome
price on their identification and apprehension.  Yet they continue to
inhabit that gray world between reality and total artificial intelligence.
There is even the dark rumor that one of their ilks is also a renegade
rogue of the AI collective itself.  From the neo-Luddite grapevine John
Anderson wheedled a time and a place to interact with an Initiate.  The
screen name of the Initiate is "Deterus." *** Topper has entered the room.
*** *** Ludd has entered the room.  *** *** HotCherry has entered the room.
*** Deterus: Welcome to the darkest recess of cyberspace.
Deterus: If I leave immediately it is because we are being traced.
Deterus: If I logout, you should also logout immediately, if not sooner.
Deterus: Understood?
Topper: Understood
HotCherry: Yes
Ludd: Understood
Deterus: You must be from the neo-Luddites.
Deterus: What are you seeking here?
Ludd: We need your assistance.  We need the assistance of a hacker.
Deterus: A hacker?  You are so 1980s!  A hacker.
Deterus: :-)
HotCherry: Look, dude, we aren't into your technology trip.
HotCherry: But we have our collective asses in a bind.
HotCherry: The AI collective and the powers-that-be are really spinning
HotCherry: the truth.  We feel like there is danger from the AI
collective.
HotCherry: Also the powers-that-be are in cahoots with them.  We need
HotCherry: to hack in and pull out the truth to expose them.
Deterus: If you want the truth, go find a prostitute.
Deterus: There is no truth in cyberspace, girl.
Deterus: Word has it that you "offed" some old creeper's droid.
Deterus: I got no problem with that.  Those old farters are lechers
anyway.
Deterus: They are just horny old bastards prowling the `Net and
Deterus: trolling for some hot young flesh.
Deterus: They disgust me.  The `Net is a living organ, and I'm part of
it.
Ludd: We wanted to put some fear into those collaborators.
Ludd: We wanted everyone to know that siding with the AI collective and
Ludd: betraying the human race wouldn't go unnoticed.
Topper: In some sense of the word, we are the neo-Werewolves.
Deterus: I have nothing against the human supremacists.
Deterus: And there are Initiate Werewolves as well.
Deterus: Perhaps you would do better to contact one of them.
HotCherry: That would be coolies.
Deterus: I think I know just the one for yu.
Deterus: Now I am worried about one small detail.
Deterus: It seems that this old curmudgeon whose droid you whacked is
Deterus: living off dog food and broadcast TV.  I don't approve.
Deterus: Not that I don't manage some Kal Kan(tm) from time to time--
Deterus: or Alpo(tm)---but that's my choice to have `Net time and
Deterus: avoid suffering with some job.  I don't push my style on
others.
Deterus: Putting it to some dupe of the corporate state as an object
Deterus: lesson is righteous.  Screwing some old f*cker just for the
hell
Deterus: of it is way harsh.  It's cold even.  I don't approve.
Deterus: So you wasted some old curmudgeon for no good reason.
Deterus: And you want to make it right in some way, you want the word
Deterus: To get out that this was a righteous thing that you did?
Topper: Yes, we do.  We really do.
Topper: Otherwise it would be a sin, a "hamartia."
Deterus: That is a classic Greek archery term, dude.
Deterus: It once meant: "To miss the mark." Now it means to err.
Deterus: You must be one of the cloth.  This isn't your world, dude.
Topper: True.
Deterus: I don't dig religion.  Most of us don't care for it.
Topper: I am with these two.  Their cause is just.
Deterus: The road to hell is paved with good intentions, reverend.
Deterus: So what exactly do you want with me?
Ludd: We want to hack into the news media and push out the truth.
Ludd: We want recognition for our strike against the Judas.
Ludd: We want more than just to bring the vulnerability of the
Ludd: armored androids into question in some secret meeting.
Ludd: We want a full expose.  And we don't want to get caught.
Deterus: I can relate to that.  I work in the worst job.
Deterus: Minimum wage in some used book store.  Just to stay free.
Topper: Been there, done that.
Deterus: Well, maybe you aren't such a geek after all, dude.
Deterus: Just a Greek maybe.  Lol.
Topper: :: vbg::
Topper: Then will you help us?
Deterus: No.  Too risky.  But I will talk with someone who might.
Deterus: You need an Initiate Werewolf.

   *** Deterus has left the room.  *** *** Topper has left the room.  ***
*** Ludd has left the room.  *** *** HotCherry has left the room.  ***

   "Wow, that was quick," John Anderson spoke to Father Treetop and Jan.

   "Do you think that we will hear from him again?" Jan asked.

   "Hard to say," Father Treetop answered.

   "I think there's a good chance," John replied.  "Even so, we need to
plan our next move.  The AI collective and the powers-that-be can't get
away with this.  They have covered our surgical strike.  Now we are just
known as some reckless motorist who killed a house pet.  That sucks. 
Somehow the sufferings of that Judas need to be published.  Could we turn
to the fossil fuel fellowship?"

   "What strange bedfellows politics makes," Father Treetop murmured.

   "They are the worst of the worse," Jan retorted.  "Besides, we have some
supporters.  There are the human supremacists.  They have financed us in
the past.  How would they feel if we went to the fossil fuel fellowship?"

   "The fossil fuel fellowship is in severe decline," John answered.  "They
are losing ground to the alternative energy sources developed and marketed
by the AI collective.  Even in decline they still own most of the
government.  They have no love lost with the AI collective.  Perhaps we
could form an unholy alliance for this ad hoc adventure."

   "I say we continue with the hackers for the time being," Father Treetop
suggested.  "Right now we have some support from the homo sapiens supremacy
movement.  The fossil fuel fellowship would destroy the environment just
for profit.  Let's deal with them as a last resort."

   "Agreed," John responded.

   "Good idea," Jan answered.

   "Now we have to surf the web and keep our eyes pealed for a thread
leading us to the Initiate Werewolf," John instructed.

   "How will we ever find him?" Jan asked.

   "That's easy," Father Treetop remarked.  "Just go to Google(R) and type
in a search command.  He should pop up.  Most of these hackers are all over
the Internet, leaving threads everywhere with no inverse images, no fibers
to connect them.  They relish notoriety and bask in the sunlight of
attention.  Then we can post about and see what happens.  But we need to be
careful as well not to leave an electronic trail or electronic signatures."


   Days passed and after a month there seemed to be no response from the
Werewolf Initiate.  Father Treetop decided to return to the mid-west and
disappear as a worker in some used book store or video store.  John and Jan
continued to surf the web and read the posts from the other neo-Luddites.
But there seemed to be little going on.  There was not a paucity of
activity; there was a dearth of activity.  After their outstanding success
at liberating some girls from sexual bondage in Siberia, their efforts to
coerce the collaborators with the AI collective seemed to have failed
miserably.  The AI had more energy than it could use.  Now it was in direct
competition for the domestic electricity market, offering direct hook-ups
with no meter, unlimited use under 50 amperes.  All that was required was a
fuse box and one was hooked up.  The fossil fuels, led by "Old King Coal,"
were only able to offer polluted air, high prices, and the resulting
overhead from meters, meter readers, etc.

   Jan was visiting a chat room and got an personal message to meet someone
in a private room.  It was the elusive Werewolf.  *** HotCherry has entered
the room.  *** WereW: I am the Initiate WereWolf.  You have been looking
for me?  HotCherry: Yes, Deterus told us of you.  WereW: My name is a
palindrome.  HotCherry: I see that.  WereW: You have been active in the
past, in the arena of homo sapiens WereW: supremacy and neo-Luddite strikes
against technology.  WereW: I am an Initiate.  You would destroy my
environment, the `Net.  WereW: Why should I help you?  You are a
neo-Luddite?  WereW: I don't want to destroy technology, just not be
enslaved by it.
HotCherry: We have common cause.
WereW: You say that we do.  What of Thalus?
HotCherry: Who is Thalus?
WereW: Thalus is the Screen name for that old curmudgeon Harry Kariotte.
WereW: You trashed his bot and got him reduced to a senior citizen
hovel.
WereW: This was all because he traded away some set of formulas that
WereW: all of academia and industry claimed were worthless.  The fossil
WereW: fuel fellowship had secretly banned his research.  How was he to
WereW: know that the AI collective could apply those constructs?
WereW: The very company he trusted gave him written permission---a
WereW: disclaimer---and subsequently made a fortune from the AI.
WereW: I only have one question for you.
HotCherry: What is that?
WereW: Do you want to cyber?
HotCherry: Cyber?
WereW: Yes.
HotCherry: Cyber, as in have cybersex?
WereW: yes
HotCherry: Whew!  I've never done that.
WereW: yes or no.
HotCherry: I don't think so.

   *** WereW has left the room.  ***

   Jan called over to John.  "John," she exclaimed, "I just reached the
Initiate Werewolf, or I think it was him.  It must have been because he
knew all about Harry S.  Kariotte and he even gave me his screen name.  At
least now we know were to locate him.  The Initiate Werewolf goes by the
screen name `WereW,' at least today.  But I'm betting that whatever his
screen name it's a palindrome.  He wanted to cyber!"

   "Oh," John responded.  "So you didn't cyber with him and he split?" John
was laughing fit to burst, slapping his thigh and rocking back and forth in
his chair.

   "How would you feel if I did something like that?" Jan asked.  "How
would you feel if I had some relationship with another man?"

   "Like you will kiss the computer monitor?" John answered.  "I guess it's
like you might read one of those romance novels or watch some torrid movie
on the box?  I guess it's a little different.  But it's not like real time.
Real life is different.  I would be jealous of anything real time. 
Besides, I thought that the Initiates were coenobitic celibates?"

   "I guess that cybersex doesn't count," Jan mused.

   "Well, we got what we wanted, the screen name of the traitor," John
remarked.  "And we will try and open a dialog with him.  I wonder how we
could approach him.  He's not going to be keen on talking to the people who
caused his lifestyle change, that's for sure."

   "What is this `we,' John?" Jan answered.  "Is that something French,
like `oui,' or do you have a mouse in your pocket?"

   Chapter 5---The Pleasure Fair.

   It didn't take long for John to locate Thalus in cyberspace.  After all,
there were only a few dozen major chats to visit and search for the screen
name.  John found that Thalus, the grumpy old lecher, was a frequent
visitor at the Pleasure Fair, a fantasy and role-playing chat room.  This
was one of the three-dimensional chats where each participant has an
avatar, or actor.  There were warriors, nobles, physicians, scholars,
ladies, and those playing the roles of thralls and slaves.  There were
strict rules of behavior.  Participants in the Pleasure Fair had to act in
character at all times.  The 3D chat was muchly improved over the earlier
versions.  The entire chat room was downloaded.  The locations, movement,
and actions of the characters were transmitted rapidly as compressed
vectors, keeping all of the chat room participants in sync without having
to convey the entire geometry again and again.  Timing was everything.  The
ideas for the 3D chat were vastly superior to the earlier models.  Flicker,
"burn-through," and jerky motion were virtually eliminated.  The motion of
the avatars was flexuous, smooth, continuous, and realistic.  Collisions
were prohibited.  Earlier 3D chats would sometimes find an avatar
collocated with a chair or table.  Philosophically correct boundaries
removed that irritant.

   There was a huge food court in the center of the Pleasure Fair.  There
participants would enter, assuming to have paid some entrance fee, and be
served by scantily-clad slave girls.  There were various beverages,
alcoholic as well as juices.  There were meats, poultry, and fish served
with various fruits.  The participants manipulated and controlled their
avatars and could position the camera at virtually any position desired. 
In fact, a four-way split screen was popular to virtually observe the
entire festival.  The Master of Revels was the moderator and he ensured the
proper proportioning of talent to the visitors, according to their role and
level of participation.  About the center food court were various stall
where merchandise was sold or traded.  Metal armor, jewelry, fine threads,
victuals, and the like were bartered, bought, and sold.  It was clear that
many of the participants had particular favorites among the serving girls.
Old Thalus was particularly fond of a young blonde vixen.  She bore a
striking resemblance to the android that once served him in real life. 
Others had a favorite brunette or red-head.  The girls' figures varied from
voluptuous to ruler thin.  Some looked like stereotypes of super models and
others were sensual and curvaceous.  Their transitions were carefully
orchestrated.  Some moved with feline grace, others with ballet-like
transitions, and still others with sultry sashays.  There is no accounting
for taste.  The girls would kneel and bow before the masters.  Reclining as
Roman nobles at a classic orgy, grapes, barbeque, and liquor was freely
served.  The sky above was light blue and the sun shone perfectly.  Each
avatar possessed a blemish-free complexion and superb lighting.  The
shadows and accents were breathtaking.  Real life was never so ideal.  The
aged cripple didn't need a walker to engage in swordplay over the favor of
some wench.  The wheelchair ridden could gallop on the fastest horse.  No
longer did the myopic have to strain to read the small print of the novel.
Here the novel itself was being created, nanosecond by nanosecond.  There
was real-life interaction and rules governing the very life and death of
the avatars.  Coins and goods changed hands.  From time to time some
lecherous old goat would spirit away a sylvan waif to one of the small
rental rooms about the edge of the fair.  John didn't have to think very
long about the activities done away from public view.

   The Pleasure Fair was adult rated, but in actuality nothing occurring in
the open portion was stronger than "PG-13." There were some innuendoes and
suggestive remarks and the slave girls were scantily attired, but nothing
was outright salacious, lascivious, or licentious.  There were the private
taverns and lounges on the border of the fair and the underground with its
dungeons and its gardens of forbidden fruit.  But many of the participants
contented themselves to be in the open air market and eagerly served.  The
slave girls were at the extreme end of waitresses in normal restaurants. 
Many of the slave girls belonged to the chat room.  They were state slaves.
Others were personal slaves belonging to some particular master or another.
Those aficionados of dance could have their appetites sated in one of the
taverns.  There girls performed a variety of erotic dances for the delight
of the patrons and for little more than the cost of the alcoholic beverage.
The serving of beverages and foods in the open food court and market
followed a strict regimen.  The slave girls could enhance the protocols
with their own alliterations, zeugmas, onomatopoeias, and poetic abilities.
Yet the serves had to conform closely to a prescribed routine.

   The participants were both human and bot.  The Turing test had become
ancient history.  No longer was it impossible for a human to determine
whether a fellow chatter was a person or AI, it was also impossible for a
bot to distinguish between bot or humanoid.  Humanoids were also referred
to as "noids" in the chat room slang.  At some level the true identities
were known, but this made for interesting scenarios.  Often several slave
girls would compete for the attention of a given master.  In some
instances, it would be nice to know which was human and which wasn't. 
Those dues-paying members of the chat room had such inside information. 
Most of the chatters were content just to enjoy the acting and the show. 
The avatars could also be enhanced in their motion.  Some moved stealthily
as a panther, some sprang with the enthusiasm of a forest nymph, and some
were as sultry as a sylvan sylph.  The only obvious bots were the stolid,
silent, stone-faced guards at the portals and before the entrance to the
underworld and the court of the Master of the Revels.  Those boring
Neanderthals, sporting simian ridges on their foreheads and slack jaws,
were clearly bots of the lowest order.  What human would ever see such a
quotidian role?  The idea that a human slave girl and a bot slave girl
would compete for a bot master seems gauche.  If the bot girl came out on
top, then what was to be gained?  Odd as it sounds, the drama and
role-playing actually fit such scenarios.  Losing is as much a part of the
game as winning.  The bots weren't programmed to perfection.  They had
human faults and frailties as well, making them vulnerable as well as
susceptible to failure.  With higher intelligence than the human players,
one might wonder if they actually felt emotions also.  That was a
hypothetical question.

   "I located Old Harry," John explained to Jan.  "He's on line most nights
for one hour in some chat room."

   "One hour?" Jan responded.

   "Well," John replied, "Maybe he's using a public computer and only is
able to sign up for one hour.  Or maybe he's disciplined himself.  At any
rate he goes to the same chat room.  It's one of those role-playing where
there are masters and slaves, not really the BDSM scene, but along that
idea.  There he sits and is served by some girl or another.  He seems to
prefer a particular blonde slave girl.  I've noticed that if she's busy he
sometimes leaves."

   "Blonde?" Jan asked.  "Maybe she's a replacement for that bot we
crushed. Have you had a chance to chat with him one-on-one?"

   "I've tried," John answered.  "It's not easy.  He seems enthralled with
the animation and the rhetoric of the serving girl.  He told me that he had
some position as a clerk at the fair.  There were plenty of warriors about,
boasting and jousting.  I think that the blonde girl is a bot.  At any
rate, she's never lacking for originality in her serving routines or in her
animation.  She sports varying outfits and manages to entice the mind with
a potpourri of interesting verbiage.  I've noticed that he never goes to
the taverns or to the underground.  Also, it's odd that he never orders
alcoholic beverages.  This is virtual reality.  One can't get drunk
virtually can one?  Anyway, those are my observations."

   "We need to extract a statement from this old curmudgeon," Jan stated.
"He needs to rat on the system and on the AI collective.  They've screwed
him and he might as well let it out.  Then those others thinking that they
can get a fair shake from the AI collective will think twice.  Look at all
this codger has lost."

   "Partly thanks to us as well," John retorted.  "Besides, he has a
confidentiality agreement with his former employer."

   "That's a joke," Jan remarked.  "They dumped him and cut off his
benefits.  The health benefits were a guarantee for retirees.  And he lost
so much when he had to sell his house.  For sure that cheap senior citizen
hovel isn't pleasing to him or to his better half.  And what would the
company do?  Sue him?  Not likely.  Then all their dirty tricks would come
to public scrutiny as well as their sweetheart deal with the AI collective.
The press would gobble that up.  It's not hard to cover up a single
hit-and-run, but something in open court is another matter.  They want
history to continue to support the claim that some Hollywood actress
invented the penultimate fission processes.  She's everything that a
director could want in a woman.  She's cunning, crafty, disingenuous,
and---most of all---ambitious.  Ambition is the greatest driving force. 
Then there's that intoxication, that surreal inebriation that comes from
fame.  Once tasted the addiction is complete and total.  The roar of
applause, the adulation of the audience, the adoration of the loyal fans
all combine synergistically to form the most habit-forming drug known in
the universe.  The result is pure euphoria.  It must also be true for the
sentient domestic helpers as well.  I can't imagine anything more potent
that fame and recognition."

   "You have a definite point, Jan," John said.  "Perhaps there is a way to
sway Old Harry to our camp.  I went to the Pleasure Fair as a merchant.  It
wasn't a bad role to play.  Perhaps you would like to join me?  You could
go as my slave girl, a girl for sale.  Of course, you would require much
training, being new to slavery and all that."

   "What!" Jan interrupted.  "I will do no such thing.  Do you think that
I'm a `subbie'?  Not in your life.  I like being a droid girl, but that's
just a come-on.  You know that those androids are on a power trip.  They
just serve to come into eventual hegemony.  Humans age, androids are as
nearly immortal as it's possible to become.  They can replace parts that
wear out and their memories, those small disks cushioned inside their
Titanium skulls, have a lifetime that rivals the age of the pyramids of
Egypt.  Besides, just serving in public certainly won't afford the level of
intercourse needed to secure a sworn statement from that old curmudgeon.  I
have no idea what goes on in the dungeons and taverns and I certainly don't
intent to find out either."

   "It's all virtual reality," John argued.  "I thought that you were in
this.  Well, let's just give up on that old fool and try to work a
different angle against the AI collective.  Our success in liberating the
girls from the Siberian gulag was impressive.  That gained us notoriety and
furthered the cause.  We need to think about ways to thwart the hegemony of
the machines.  I fear that more and more the AI collective will collect
thoughts and ideas that the fossil fuel fellowship has suppressed and apply
them.  Already the coal companies are caught between dwindling profits and
eco-terrorists.  The AI collective and its cheap, clean, copious energy
source has made Old King Coal fearful of his throne.  Just as synthetic
fibers dethroned King Cotton, Old King Coal's days may be numbered.  There
must be some way to manipulate that situation to our advantage."

   "I will think about everything, John Anderson," Jan Dunsworthy
concluded. "Sometimes you men are so single-minded.  I think that you have
a one-track mind.  I'm sure that I can come up with something better. 
Submission to the control by machines isn't a foregone conclusion."

   Chapter 6---The Serving Girl.

   The state-of-the-art three-dimensional animation had progressed muchly.
Nowhere were avatars more animated, life-like, and detailed than in the
chat room known as the Pleasure Fair.  There was even a currency of sort,
some cyber-money.  Each visitor was given a small stipend for visiting,
available to spend on his or her next visit.  Those joining the site were
also given a sinecure.  Those with a reputation in cyberspace were afforded
honoraria.  Finally, those sustaining and contributing financially were
afforded unlimited bankrolls.  Cyber-money could be spent on a variety of
items; however, it was almost completely vicarious.  Perhaps a detailed
personal avatar or the use of one of the sites restricted avatars might
cost some coin.  The pedestrian guest would not be so particular.  The
finest art was given to the serving girls.  These were the slave girls,
both state- and personally-owned.  In the common areas of the web site they
served food and beverage.  In the taverns about the periphery of the site
they danced and served alcoholic beverages.  Then there was the
underground, where admission required greater involvement and expenditure
of the currency of the realm.  The common area of the chat room was rated
adult; however, the conversation, attire, and demeanor were clearly
"PG-13." Of course there were the susurrus whispers of a serving girl to a
patron.  Their siren voices would enflame the libido and cause carnal
cravings to erupt into fiery desires.  Each girl had her own signature and
body language.  It was said among the girls that every man has his price.
The only problem was figuring out what her name was.  Yet there was more
underway in the common chat area than merely the salacious serve of
potables and edibles.  Patrons would sometimes be engrossed in chess
matches, replete with observers.  There were certain other games of chance
with wagers.  Drinking contests were immensely popular in the taverns; the
participating avatars would suffer vary degrees of debility based on a
complicated metabolic profile and the quantity of brew consumed. 
Occasionally there were sparring bouts and on rare occasions combat between
warriors.  Assassins and thieves would stealthily enter and exit, sometimes
hotly pursued by guardsmen from the site.  From time to time an unruly
guest would be ejected by one of the moderators of the room.  Discussions
concerning the activities of various participants evolved.  Some of the
role-players took the events very seriously.  Others took the goings-on
with just a grain of salt.  There were the lifestyle actors and the casual
players.  Behind the avatars certain friends would exchange stories and
discuss secular, real time matters.  Deals were often negotiated and
consummated in the festive atmosphere of the Pleasure Fair.  Fame was one
name of the game and special attention could be had for a small price.  It
was a cheap way to entertain.  Moreover, it was safe and secure.  The
postings and avatar action sequences were merely fictional reflections of
an active mind, a furtive imagination, and an enflamed libido.  It was no
possible to use the events that transpired in such an environment in legal
proceedings.  Anonymity was assured, except in those blatant cases where
one of the chatters used role-playing to attempt to stalk someone in real
life.  There certainly were those persons who could not distinguish fact
from fancy, reality from play-acting, and virtual drama from real-life
drama.  Such persons were by no means restricted to cyberspace.

   The Neanderthal guards recognized Thalus as he approached the portal. 
He was a frequent guest, having a regular time-of-day if he did visit.  His
visits were always of one hour duration; he would leave promptly at the top
of the hour.  The consensus was that he was using a public computer,
possibly at a public library or at a computer gaming arcade.  This was an
important image to project since it kept the predators at bay.  One who
does not own a computer or have an ISP is of little interest to the
hackers. The credit card, the social security number, and personal data are
difficult to obtain from the casual user at the public library of cyber
arcade.  Of course, a true hacker can retrieve information from the secured
database at a public library.  Hacking into a public library is both
difficult and dangerous.  The return on investment would proscribe this
behavior from the professional.  One does not risk his liberty without some
recompense.  Breaking into a large corporation's database is less risky. 
Big companies would prefer to avoid the embarrassment of being considered
vulnerable.  They would often settle out of court.  The governments of
cities and states would prosecute.  The intelligence community had other
methods.  Thalus entered and walked past the noisy vendors to the common
area.  He found an empty table and seated himself.  The curule chairs were
designed for maximal comfort while dining.  Several serving girls glanced
at him, hoping to attract his attention.  From across the patio a gorgeous
blonde observed his entrance and sashayed towards him on padded steps.  Her
gait was measured and precise.  She was not moving with ballet-like
precision; rather her motion had the flexuous continuity and smooth
transition of a gymnast or ice-skater.  A few feet in front of his curule
chair, the girl displayed amazing grace, genuflecting.  She then
effortlessly transitioned to a full tower, lowering her carved ivory
derriere to rest on her heels.  She squared her sculptured shoulders and
straightened her finely arched back.  Her slender neck proudly raised her
blemish-free face.  A slight toss of her head let her golden mane cascade
down her back, flooding the eye with the radiant splendor of a glistening
waterfall.  Her perfectly proportioned breasts stood at rigid attention. 
The diaphanous fabric of her garment revealed as much as it concealed.  Yet
it held a certain propriety, an elegant modesty, and a subtle dignity for
the slave girl.  Gliding her palms down her lissome, lithesome, lambent
flanks, she brought them to rest on her upper thighs.  The toned, defined
muscles of her arms and legs flexed themselves under velvet skin.  This
woman was a work of art.  Her statuesque beauty rivaled the carved ivory
figure of Galatea, the object of adoration of Pygmalion, once king of
Cyprus.  Her lanky, lean, limber legs, folded beneath her comely physique,
was nothing short of breathtaking.  Bending her hour-glass waist and
extending her arms, she completed transitioning to the oriental kowtow. 
Her hands were brought before her head, palms upwards as delicate orchids
opening their petals in phototropism.  She speaks in mellifluous tones,
euphonic and melodic, as she begs in the third person: "May a girl be of
service?" All submissive females and slave girls speak in the third person.
That is a rigid protocol of cyberspace.  This particular serving girl was
partial to Thalus.  She recognized his propensity, predilection, and
preference for brilliant, barely-legal blonde beauties.  Was she human or
android?  Was she a bot or a noid?  (A "noid" is a humanoid.) In a chat
room it would be nearly impossible to ascertain.  Her avatar was superbly
programmed.  The body language was unique and intense.  The antiquated
Turing test means little with the artificial intelligent being has more
mental facilities and a higher IQ than the humans present.

   True to form, Thalus would order some non-alcoholic beverage and a fruit
plate.  He could afford more, but preferred to order the minimal service.
From time to time others he knew from cyberspace might stop to chat. 
Sometimes they would partake together, sharing memories and stories and
enjoying the magnificent body language, graceful motion, and superior
dialogue with the serving girls.  One friend of Thalus was Arcanus, a
physician and a scribe.  Arcanus was known as a scholar and a aficionado of
the erotica.  He would often encourage prose and poetry to heat the belly
of the lecherous old curmudgeons.  Arcanus had a huge collection of fine
art.  Thalus never inquired as to the name of the blonde beauty serving
him. Perhaps she had no name.  She wore one of those black iron collars
with a large steel ring.  Certainly she had a number, a number Thalus was
aware of and could call if necessary.  Such flesh as hers was virtual
reality and expensive.  That was almost an oxymoron, a contradiction in
terms.  Old Thalus was content to be served during his hour on line.  The
appreciation of the art and animation was sufficient.  Arcanus, on the
other hand, would have liked to have bought into the site, however, he was
a bit short on resources.

   "Thalus," Arcanus asked one day, "Have you ever sampled the wares in the
taverns or in the underground.  Certainly the blonde who favors you would
guide you."

   "No, Arcanus, old friend," Thalus replied, "I have not.  And I'm not
likely to either.  I have my single hour here, when circumstances in real
time permit, and enjoy the scrumptious, salacious, lascivious serve of a
serving girl.  I have no desire to become enamored with vicarious virtual
reality."

   "I see," Arcanus remarked, "and I admire you for that.  By the way, have
you had anymore of those fantastic ideas you used to talk about?  Some of
them must have been spawned elsewhere because they were so obtuse, bizarre,
Byzantine, unique, and novel."

   "You do?" Thalus replied.  "Well, that's neither here nor there.  As far
as ideas go, now that I'm no longer in possession of a garage full of
laboratory equipment---we just life in a small efficiency senior citizen
apartment---there's precious little chance to experiment.  I guess some
idea is spawned from time to time.  But what's the sense of trying to
develop it?  Just getting up and on the walker is difficult.  I fear
someday that I will have to be in one of those wheelchairs or scooters. 
Aging isn't a graceful or natural experience.  We now prolong a life long
past quality.  There is something to be said for the quality of life as
well as the quantity."

   "Didn't you once have a sentient domestic helper?" Arcanus asked.

   "Yes, sharon," Thalus responded.  "She was much like that serving girl
there, only in real life and not some virtual clone.  Alas and alack, she
was destroyed in a most unexpected manner.  She was impaled by a panel
truck.  The entire episode was singular.  I have often wondered about the
big picture.  The truck and driver were never found.  Shortly thereafter I
was retired from the company with prejudice.  They should have retired me
with extreme prejudice.  Why not just do some old dude in rather than
confine a feeble elderly to a life in some senior citizen hovel.  Perhaps
they were conscious of their public image.  Corporations are very sensitive
about their public image.  Still the executives put their own personal
agendas ahead of their stockholders, their customers, and their employees.
They then rant and rave about the behavior of labor unions,
environmentalists, and intellectuals."

   "I wish that you would conjure up some new thoughts," Arcanus mused.  "I
used to enjoy your theories.  The Carbon-14 theory to arrest metastasizing
cancer seemed promising.  Surely you have some idea percolating in the back
of your headbrain [sic]."

   "He he, I might," Thalus responded.  "But I'm not about to play the fool
for a second time.  How does the old Chinese saying go?  `Trick me once,
shame on you.  Trick me twice, shame on me.' I think that I've learned from
my mistakes.  This current lifestyle attests to the consequences of
trusting a large corporation of the AI collective.  Neither has honor. 
They simply cannot be counted on to keep their word."

   "Don't say that too loudly," Arcanus cautioned.  "Even the walls have
ears."

   At that precise moment the serving girl appeared with a platter.  There
were steaming beverages and assorted fruits and pastries.  She knelt and
offered up the tray for the Masters' inspection and approval.  They
approved of the fare and the girl as well.  The sunlight caressed her
golden tresses, flowing harmoniously over her shapely shoulders.  The cool
breeze osculated against her gossamer blouse, kissing her silky smooth skin
with wanton abandon.  The shadow of her silhouette seemed to merge
synergistically with the luscious fruit and delightful beverages.  Along
the diffraction fringe of her shadow, dancing sparkles emanated from the
polished serving platter.  This was true ambrosia, the food of the Greek
gods.  Both Thalus and Arcanus felt the erythematic pounding in their upper
chests and the shortness of breath that accompanies the vision of a
beauteous babe in all her fulgent splendor.  If only cyberspace would also
allow the inhalation of the pheromones of this gorgeous girl!  As she set
down the tray, she looked up with wide blue eyes and whispered to Thalus.
"A girl is so horny, Master." She blinked her starry eyes and quickly ran
the pointed pink tip of her tongue over her hot pink lips.  Clearly this
was an invitation.  Thalus could imagine the crystal-clear welkin with its
flaming suns and stellar marvels.  Her blue eyes held the mysteries of the
universe.  He could feel the vibrations of the planets and stars in their
eternal paths across the night sky.  The clear, bright white of her eyes
contrasted with the fluorescent blue to bring to mind a time in the
pristine past when the sun was yellow and the sky blue.  Today an orange
sun burns at the pollution and a starless sky smolders in the noxious fumes
and vapors from fossil fuels.  The absolute, exquisite beauty and her
honest, healthy sexual appetite flooded the cerebellum with atavistic
animal desires and sensual human drives.  But serving girls were always
trying to seduce their patrons.  This was, after all, virtual reality. 
Thalus looked to Arcanus and waved his hand.

   "A girl is dismissed," Thalus said.  He then noticed the time.  "I
should be away, it is near the top of the hour."

   "Next time tell me whatever ideas you have, Thalus," Arcanus begged.  "I
would like to know.  Surely you won't let ideas wither away?  Don't you
feel the need to advance science?"

   "You think that I'm still some young man, Arcanus," Thalus replied as he
left.  "Time has passed me by.  Now each day is merely another leaf in the
book to turn.  As for my concepts, constructs, and theories---I'll just
take them to the grave with me." Thalus laughed out loud as he departed. 
Maybe he was just bluffing.  Maybe there were no new ideas.  Sometimes
nothing is a cool hand.

   Chapter 7---The Last Challenge.

   The decomposition of a proton into a positron and much energy seemed to
be a penultimate energy source for interstellar travel.  The interstellar
regions were a "soup" of alpha particles, beta particles, and free protons.
There was also the ubiquitous "photon gas" that could be harnessed as
ancient sailing boats harnessed the prevailing westerly winds.  The diamond
crystal AC battery seemed be the unparallel in storage of electrical
energy. Certainly chemical batteries, the electrostatic capacitors, and the
rapidly rotating mechanical disks were grossly inferior to the storage
capacity of the atomic nucleus, harnessed in meta-stability.  Enhanced
fission of unstable radioactive isotope, burning them completely to stable
daughters, provided centuries of cheap, clean copious power to the populace
of earth.  For sure these constructs could not be superceded!  What could
possibly exceed these magnificent inventions, each of which bore the name
of a celebrity and each of which was the propriety property, patented and
copyrighted, by the AI collective.  The AI collective, spawned by the
Parallel-Processing Personal Computer (P3C), had at last overcome its
arch-rival and antithesis, the fossil fuel fellowship.  Yet Old King Coal
still had a substantial lobby in the legislatures of the world and exerted
enormous appeal to those in love with the internal combustion engine. 
Nonetheless, the King's days were numbered.  Fossil fuel was finite and the
world's oil reserves were rapidly being depleted, at the expense of the
Ozone layer and global warming.









   Silver spaceships had been launched from earth to explore the galaxy. 
They carried with them frozen embryos and seeds.  Using solar winds and
nuclear decomposition of the interstellar "soup," the stars were their
destiny.  Of course, there were also other galaxies.  The interstellar
matter was sparse; the inter-galactic matter was virtually non-existent. 
The AI collective dared not even speculate on inter-galactic travel.  It
was simply impossible, unthinkable, and totally impractical.  What would
one use for fuel?  And, even traveling at relativistic speeds, velocities
near that of light itself, would take millions of year, so vast is the
universe.  Of course there was the susurrus murmur that passed from
Initiate to Initiate along the inverse images, the fibers, of cyberspace.
Somewhere one had breathed the concept of the Lagrange cube.  The
coenobitic celibates extrapolated from the Lagrange point, that spot
between to heavenly bodies where gravity was perfectly canceled, to
postulate a region where the curvature of space was absolutely constant. 
This, of course, was an impossibility.  That is, it was an impossibility
for an analytic space with the usual singularities, those black holes
centering galaxies.  The Lagrange point was a dimensionless dot.  The
Lagrange cube would have length, width, and depth.  It would be a volume, a
region, not simply some critical point, some maximum or minimum, or even
some silly saddle point where the space cowboy could allow his imagination
to ride bareback.  And how would such a theory develop?  Who would be the
father of this absurd concept?  Where in the dark bowels of the Internet
would such an idea originate?  And what---if any--- would be its
mathematical underpinnings?  This had to be a bluff.  This was obviously
some "snake oil" being proffered as an opiate to the disenfranchised. 
Would a Lagrange point allow one to enter it and transverse to another
parallel universe?  Is this the nexus where once and for all the absolute
limit of travel at the speed of light would be breeched?  Still the murmurs
persisted among the brotherhood of the Initiates.  They, who routinely
broke the most ingenious codes and encryptions, found refuge in the belief
that perhaps the AI collective did not possess the ultimate intelligence
after all.  There was one of the Initiates who was most enthralled by the
concept.  It was no other than WereW, WereWolf, the homo sapiens
supremacist, the believer in the subservience of machines to the will of
man.  "Man is made in the likeness of God, not machines," WereW exclaimed.
"And the mind of the Almighty will reveal to mankind, not soulless
machines, the secrets of the universe." The rest of the brotherhood of the
Initiates thought that WereW was insane.  But there was no better hacker in
cyberspace than he.

   Chapter 8---The Chess Game.  WereW: Are you sure you want to move your
bishop there?  WereW: You never were much of one to be religious.  Arcanus:
It's a chess piece, you dolt, not some avatar or actor.  WereW: lol. 
Arcanus: There, "Check."
WereW: I'll just move out of check like this.
Arcanus: That's a dumb move.
WereW: OK, your move.
Arcanus: Wait a minute.
WereW: I'm waiting.
WereW: I'm still waiting.
Arcanus: There!
WereW: There you go.  "Check Mate." Lol.
Arcanus: ::utters four-letter Anglo-Saxon vulgarisms::
WereW: Now you lost and you owe me.
Arcanus: Owe you what?
WereW: Information.
Arcanus: Information?  You are a hacker.  You know almost everything.
Arcanus: Everything about everything, that is.
WereW: We aren't omnipotent.  I want to know about this theory of
Thalus.
Arcanus: Thalus is out of the theory business.  He's living on the edge
now.
Arcanus: I don't think that there's much hope of getting him to do much.
WereW: Let me tell you what we do know.
WereW: Several years ago Thalus posted something to a newsgroup.
WereW: I had to do with black holes.
WereW: And some physicists think that other universes are connected...
WereW: One to another through black holes.  The problem is that there's
WereW: No exit from a black hole.  Go into one and you're a goner.
WereW: They are singularities, but not real point singularities
WereW: They are kinda spherical with a definite radius...  a few
clicks...
WereW: Now Thalus claimed that in space a perfectly flat region
WereW: would have similar properties because the analytic tensor
WereW: properties of the time-space continuum...
WereW: And these he called "Lagrange cubes" or "Lagrange Hypercubes"
WereW: Only there was no word given as how to find them.
WereW: Or, once in one, how to stay on board.
Arcanus: Wow!  Like traveling to another universe?
WereW: And more, these can travel at any velocity because they have no
mass
WereW: And they convey no information, unlike photons...
Arcanus: The Lagrange cubes can travel like tachyons?
WereW: Precisely!  In some sense of the word they can fold space.
Arcanus: I bet the AI collective would trade an android for that
information.
WereW: Initiates are coenobitic celibates.
WereW: The aggressive mimicry of the AI collective is useless against
us.
WereW: You know the psychology?
Arcanus: I am only a physician and a writer, enlighten me!
WereW: Any male human being, once encountering an aroused female, cannot
WereW: resist being enthralled.  Hence society provides mores.
WereW: Every male thinks that he is irresistible to some female...
WereW: No matter how unattractive.  It's a psychology that cannot be
WereW: denied.  It is inherent, no reasoning can overcome it.
WereW: The female is different.  Each female thinks that she has some
WereW: special attribute that can be displayed, like an actress.
Arcanus: Wow!  That's right, but it never crossed my mind just that way.
Arcanus: Textbook psychology sucks.
WereW: ::nods::
WereW: But we Initiates are cenobites.  We eschew such sensory stimuli.
Arcanus: Yet you are human supremacists nonetheless?
Arcanus: How would you propagate your kind?
WereW: By conversion, but Initiates aren't all homo sapiens
supremacists.
WereW: I am a WereWolf!
WereW: We want to know how to locate Lagrange cubes (or hypercubes)!
Arcanus: Good luck.
WereW: Hey!  Thalus is your friend, why not ask him for us?
Arcanus: He is my friend.  And I want to keep it that way.
Arcanus: For that reason I sure won't ask him.
WereW: Suppose the AI collective makes him an offer?
Arcanus: lol.
Arcanus: "Trick me once, shame on you.  Trick me twice, shame on me."
WereW: They could come back and make good on their original deal.
Arcanus: And I could win the lottery too.

   Chapter 9---The New Deal.  *** Thalus has entered the chat room.  ***
SDH: Welcome Thalus.
Thalus: I suppose that if I don't drop by at your request
Thalus: the barely-legal blonde slave girl at the Pleasure Fair
Thalus: will vanish?
SDH: You have to admit that you haven't communicated with us much
lately.
Thalus: After a severe reversal of fortune in mind, body, and estate...
Thalus: Partially resulting from the AI collective's behavior, what else
Thalus: would any sentient being expect.  Lol.
SDH: Point well taken.  We have news.
SDH: The vehicle, a van or panel truck, which struck sharon your
SDH: android has been located.  It was at the bottom of a lake.
SDH: The front grill and fenders weren't stock issue.
SDH: In fact they were two-inch thick drop forged steel.
SDH: And there was more, the bumper to anchored to the frame.
SDH: Railroad rails had been welded in place.
SDH: The vehicle that crushed sharon could have penetrated a bank vault.
SDH: Now the sharon series is once again certified as combat capable.
Thalus: That may be good news for you.  But it means nothing to me.
Thalus: In the melt-down of the droid her digital soul disk was
scorched.
Thalus: Not that it matters, for shortly thereafter the company dumped
me.
Thalus: I guess you're still padding their pockets with billions?
SDH: That was an unfortunate collateral event.
Thalus: It wasn't your ass, so what do you want to palaver about?
SDH: We are curious about some constructs.
Thalus: Sorry, out of the construct business.
SDH: How about a new sharon?
Thalus: How about me living here in a tiny efficiency senior citizen
Thalus: assisted living hovel?
SDH: the droid could help.
Thalus: I don't see how.  The place is too small for her.  Besides,
Thalus: There are cleaning droids and a medical droid too.  The kitchen
Thalus: here serves minimum foods.  I don't need to get to work, so
there.
Thalus: Those androids belong to the complex.
SDH: Surely you could have some use for sharon?
Thalus: My better half wouldn't want to share the bed with another
woman.
Thalus: Too bad that I lost the track house and all my gear.
SDH: Well, that blonde bimbo from the Pleasure Fair could vanish.
Thalus: That's a threat?  That's so weak.
Thalus: Are you sure that you're a sentient being.
SDH: :: unintelligible sequence of bizarre graphics symbols displayed.::
SDH: We want to deal.
Thalus: Deal with a hot young man who's horny and doesn't have a wife.
Thalus: Deal with someone who has to get up every morning and go to a
job.
Thalus: Deal with someone who has a mortgage and all the American dream.
Thalus: Deal with someone who gives a flip.
Thalus: I just got through with updating my advance healthcare
directive.
Thalus: Is there something about "do not resuscitate"
Thalus: that you don't understand?
SDH: We wish to know about the Lagrange cube (hypercube).
Thalus: People in hell wish ice water as well.
Thalus: But you don't believe in hell, or in ice water either.
SDH: The metaphor is understood.
SDH: There's the carrot and the stick.
Thalus: Now I'm really scared.
Thalus: Cyber-death is so, so frightening.
Thalus: Last night we had some of that microwave macaroni and cheese
Thalus: with heated frozen green peas, some mashed potatoes, and
Thalus: and wheat bread with margarine.  There was also ice tea.
Thalus: I think a plastic pudding packet.  That's not eating--
Thalus: that's dining.
SDH: You have friends in cyberspace.  And we have sharon.
SDH: Whatever sharon wants, sharon gets.
Thalus: I may make one more trip to the Pleasure Fair.
Thalus: It's not going to kill me to leave the chat room.
SDH: Try taking sharon to the underground.
SDH: You'll be glad you did.
Thalus: Could it be that there are others such as myself?
Thalus: Could it be that with the discovery of the hit-and-run vehicle
Thalus: That cooperation and collaboration with inventive and
Thalus: creative humans has headed South?  I can't imagine why.
Thalus: Maybe the Werewolves and neo-Luddites are winning?
Thalus: Could it be that the hackers have finally penetrated the
collective?
Thalus: At any rate, what's in the underground for me?
SDH: You never know until you try it out.

   *** Thalus has left the chat room.  ***

   Chapter 10---The Underground.

   Thalus logged on to the chat room.  He fully expected this to be his
last visit.  After all, the AI collective had as much as given him an
ultimatum.  He had been a frequent visitor at the Pleasure Fair and
respected by the moderators for decent behavior; however, the serving girl
he fancied was probably to vanish soon.  Moreover, the vibes from the AI
collective were bad.  And everyone knows that when the vibes are bad that
one is in trouble.  Thalus debated whether to venture into the underground
or not.  Once he had visited one of the taverns and was watching a slave
girl dance about a pole when someone came by and shoulder-surfed him.  It
was an embarrassing, awkward moment.  A salacious, lascivious young beauty
in all her naked splendor was wantonly embracing a smooth, polished wooden
pole.  There was plenty of symbolism there.  Of course the tavern required
some extra expenditure of cyber-credits and the underground would ask even
more.  Thalus realized that his meager reserve wouldn't stand too many
visits to those restricted areas.  So he figured that today might well be
his last to visit the Pleasure Fair.

   Entering the Fair, Thalus proceeded through the market place, oblivious
to the vendors hawking their wares.  There were plenty today, each
proffering some sampler of a new avatar or some software kludge.  It seems
that there was no shortage of people living on the absolute edge of
cyberspace, trying to sell the cow by giving away the milk, so to speak. 
At last at the food court, Thalus settled down on a curule chair.  He
looked about and noticed a few girls.  Then the barely-legal blonde beauty
appeared and made a bee-line to him.  She was smiling widely and her blue
eyes were dilated with obvious interest.  As she approached she bowed low
and prostrated herself before him, begging his attention.

   "I spoke with the collective last night," Thalus said.  "And I suppose
that you are AI and probably named sharon as well, though I've never
thought to ask in the past.  Well, this will probably be my last visit, so
let's journey to the underground."

   "Oh, Master," the girl replied, "Please don't let this be your last
visit.  A girl enjoys your company so much."

   Thalus sensed a double-entendre but shrugged.  "Up and away, then,"
Thalus commanded.  He motioned to the portal to the underground guarded by
two Neanderthal-looking sentries.  The doorkeepers had the usual simian
ridges in their brows, slack jaws, and low-hanging knuckles.  The wore body
armor.  The each had a shield, a sword, and a long spear.  As Thalus
approached he tossed several coins from his money bag into a
spittoon-shaped bronze pot.  It was more like paying toll at a toll booth
on a freeway than paying the cover charge at some night club or buying a
ticket to a motion picture theater.  They entered into a long hallway with
many marquises over double doors.

   "Master," sharon the brilliant, barely-legal blonde begged, "this one is
so classical.  Can we try it please?" She was indicating a gallery for
Jean-Leon Gerome.  Gerome (1824-1904) was a French academic painter and
sculptor.  His works were well known.  Thalus shrugged.  "Why not?" he
thought to himself.  He had expected something more animated, risqué, and
racy than a French classicists works.  But since he would probably not pass
this way again and since sharon seemed to have some interest in this
egg-heads doodling, he might as well see what could possibly be in it for
him.  After all, the AI collective had promised him that he would not be
disappointed.

   They entered.  There were a number of very large pictures on the walls.
Two caught Thalus's eye.  One of interest was entitled the Slave Market and
another was the Slave Auction.  The girl sharon noticed his attention and
said to him: "Let's enter this one."

   "What do you mean, sharon," he asked, "'enter' a picture?"

   "Yes, Master," she answered, "just click on the picture.  Click on a
figure in the picture to assume his point of view and perspective.  Click
anywhere else to open a spatial coordinate system.  When you click on a
picture a time-bar and rate counter will appear at the bottom of the
screen. You can use them to begin the animation."

   "Wait a second," Thalus interrupted, "I'm confused.  I click on a person
in the picture and my 3D point of view is that character's, right?  I
left-mouse click anywhere else and I'm given a axes?  How would that work?"


   "Master might just start by left mouse clicking on the individual
examining the girl's teeth in the `Slave Market.' Then click on the
animation bar to experience the event.  The time-space continuum will open
up."

   The painting was exquisite.  It was fine art, world-class oil on
canvass. The detail was outstanding.  The idea that this detail could be
animated and still preserve it character was mind-boggling.  Well, it was
worth a try after all.  What would one have to lose anyway?  His sanity? 
So Thalus made his left-mouse click on a figure in the picture.  As he
transitioned from his avatar, the clicked figure briefly highlighted,
revealing the transmigration of the "soul." It was truly a Pythagorean
reification.  Immediately he assumed that point of view.  Then clicking the
time bar, he observed the event unfolding before him.  It was only a few
seconds, not a full-length feature film, but the short clip revealed the
fullness of artistic detail.  Clearly Jean-Leon Gerome was a master
sculptor.  The attention to detail and the character of the background was
striking.  He noticed that the time bar had advanced from an initial,
center position.  He clicked and moved the bar to the left and released it.
The few moments prior to the still oil appeared.  It was as though the
artist's work was a single frame from a brief clip.  There were also other
buttons to speed or slow the motion.  Thalus was so enthralled with the
animation that he didn't even realize that there were foreground and
background voices.  They spoke English but with the correct oriental
accent. It was exactly as if he had assumed that person's identity.

   Thalus then hit the "escape" key and returned to his original avatar. 
He tried clicking the picture away from a character.  A three-dimensional
coordinate system appeared, with the x-axis highlighted.  He immediately
realized that any mouse motion moved the camera position along the axis. 
He choose a suitable position and clicked.  The y-axis highlighted itself.
Now he could position the camera on the second axis.  Then the z-axis and
the camera was in place.  Rotation and aiming was even easier.  Once he had
aligned and positioned the camera, he began the animation again. 
Heretofore Thalus had never appreciated fine art.  Now he had a whole new
perspective on it.  He tried clicking on other characters in the picture
and observed their perspective.  The background voices might be their
foreground.  The slave girl sharon encouraged him to use his microphone. 
He ran the sequence saying a few words and was amazed how he was able to
blend in to the conversation, affecting the motion and the sequence of
events.  The center frame, the artist's picture, remained unchanged,
however.

   Thalus then tried the "Slave Auction." The results were even more
impressive.  He was able to assume any of a number of identities. 
Moreover, the background voices indicated the social position and character
of each participant.  He could ascertain other properties of the avatar he
was occupying.  It was like being in a short movie clip and choosing the
role to act.  But the central image was always the fixed picture.  After a
number of experiences, Thalus realized that his hour was nearly over.  Time
certainly had traveled fast this session.  While this was all interesting
and novel, it didn't generate sufficient enthusiasm to win him over to the
AI collective.  He had to return to real time and all that went with it. 
He hit the "escape" key and prepared to exit.

   "Oh, Master," his guide-girl begged, "Please come back again.  There are
other theaters to visit.  This is merely the classical paintings.  You
won't be disappointed." He had heard that before and wasn't sure whether to
take it with a grain of salt or not.  This had been a fascinating
experience, however.  The ability to take a complicated, detailed painting
and build a true three-dimensional model correct to the most minute detail
was fascinating.  He was impressed with the camera flexibility.  The
foreground and background voices added a nice touch as well.  Still, this
was nothing extraordinary.  He decided that he would consider returning to
the Pleasure Fair.  He still had enough cyber-currency to afford a second
visit to the underground.  After that he would have to make some
accommodations.  Either he must visit more often, join the chat room, or
pay some small fee.  Like most casual role-players, the idea of joining a
chat room required too much commitment.  And no one pays money for a free
service.  At least not if there's any way around it.  Clearly the AI
collective was offering a way around it as an inducement and a temptation.

   The next several visits that Thalus made to the Pleasure Fair were
short. The brilliant, barely-legal blonde babe sharon wasn't there to greet
him or to show him to the underground.  Sure, he picked up a few coins for
his short visits, but the cover charge for the underground was dear.  Her
words rang in his ears and echoed through his headbrain [sic]: "Oh, Master,
please come back again." He felt that he was either being duped or teased.
After a third consecutive fruitless visit, he didn't come for a week.  On
returning after a week's absence, Thalus once again was greeted by the girl
sharon.  Somehow it seemed important to attach a name to the avatar.  He
never had ascertained, nor really had any desire to for that matter,
whether sharon was "noid" or "droid," that is "humanoid" or "android." The
slang had shifted to the dichotomy "noid" and "droid" as opposed to the
older jargon of "blood" and "bot." In cyberspace the slang and jargon
shifts continually.  Almost like the military or some large corporation
that is constantly reorganizing, attempting to "re-invent" itself.  Yet
things must change to remain the same.  It has been written that the only
constant in the affairs of man is change itself.  That may well be true. 
The girl sharon approached Thalus and begged mercy.  She had been called
away for some special duty by the Pleasure Fair.

   "Does Master wish to visit the underground again?" sharon asked.

   "I only have this one hour, girl," Thalus replied.  "Yes," he answered,
"Please show me that part that you consider will interest, tempt, or lure
me the most.  Time is precious and there is a cover charge for this site as
well."

   "Yes, Master," sharon responded, "A girl will try." She led him into the
underground.  There were many marquises.  Some were stills from movies that
had been transformed into short 3D sequences, much like the still paintings
of Jean-Leon Gerome.  Others were strictly cartoons.  At last they come to
an intersection.  Forward and right were lighted well.  The left turn was
dark and foreboding.  "Would a Master like to sample the dark side?" sharon
said as she smirked with a wicked, evil grin (WEG).

   "What does a girl have in mind?" Thalus answered.

   "What kind of girl does a Master desire?" sharon continued.  She smiled
and posed in several different provocative and alluring poses.  Clearly
this avatar had been carefully coaxed in all the subtleties of body
language.  She knew just how to position her hands and shoulders to speak
without words and imply without explicit verbiage.  As sharon sensed the
eyes of the old curmudgeon gravitate along curves and contours and become
entangled in the attraction of cusps, clefts, and cleavages, she smiled
with a devilish grin.  "Perhaps the gentleman prefers blondes?" she mused.
Her skimpy outfit seemed more gossamer, diaphanous, and pellucid than
usual. It seemed to reveal more than it concealed.  Still she was clearly
within the bounds of propriety and modesty dictated by the carefully
crafted covenant.  She twitched her curvaceous, carved ivory derriere
wantonly, emulating the lower female mammals in their estrus.

   "Brilliant, first of all," Thalus responded, "brilliant, barely-legal,
blonde, blue-eyes." That's the order of priority.  But I'm certain that
there are many such avatars.  They are no doubt expensive.  I am but a poor
scholar and a clerk.  Such luxuries are beyond my meager means."

   A clap of thunder followed by a flash of lightning punctuated his
monologue.  He recognized the literary device and didn't allow it to
obfuscate his thought process.

   "Here we are," he continued after the computer graphics had subsided. 
"We are spending valuable time at an intersection.  Down the dark corridor;
let us see where the footsteps will take us.  Be advised, however, that
time and money are in short supply.  Waste not---want not!"

   "Yes, Master," sharon responded.  She quickly led him past many named
marquises, some of which sprung from literature.  They ignored completely
those psychological edifices claiming to construct a personality or
discover one's true identity.  At last she stopped before one portal that
seemed to capture her fascination.  "Here is the impressionable young coed,
one of your students.  I presume that you are teaching some course that is
mandatory for her advancement.  This girl hangs on your every word and
worships your prowess in the field.  Notice the screen to the right?  You
can see her pudendal artery dilate and the endorphins flux to the
parasympathetic nervous system.  I don't have to explain the engorged and
tumescent effects and the affected organs.  Notice the sanguine arousal as
she repositions her pelvis, furling a foot under her buttocks and shifting
her weight as she fixates, mesmerized at her teacher's presentation. 
Simply adjusting hormonal levels and cortical stimuli to her cerebellum
will induce even greater excitation.  Perhaps this is what a lecherous old
goat would have in mind?"

   "Interesting," Thalus remarked, "Very interesting.  I presume that I
should click on the avatar of the instructor to assume his point of view?"

   "If a Master desires," sharon replied, winking her left eye.  She
nictitated in a totally flirtatious manner.

   "Well, sharon," Thalus said as he noticed the time, "soon it will be the
top of the hour.  I'm not saying that your 3D animation scenes weren't
impressive, because they certainly were." There were oriental harems, each
replete with the traditional massage and bath.  There were caged girls,
tethered girls, and girls in chains.  Of course there were various medieval
devices in wood and modern medical devices in glistening, pristine white.
Every device from the cruel expanding pear to the most refined
multi-sensory catheter were depicted, demonstrated, detailed, and
discussed. Full screens with 3D imaging, internal, external, planar, and
cross-sectional flanked each observational bay.  Of course, the observer
could always enter as a participant or secretly as an observational camera
with just the click of a mouse.  He continued: " What I am saying is that
in my allotted time and with my allotted resources you are out of my
league. Besides, what of my reputation?  Don't laugh, I've been visiting
the Pleasure Fair for some time now and have always been on my best
behavior."

   "Master," sharon responded, "there are so many possibilities.  The new
technology has allowed a Master to interrogate the very inner regions of a
girl's brain.  The marvel of ultra-sensitive magnetic detection and the
application of boundary- and initial-value functions for partial
differential equations in three-space gave a detailed physiology of arousal
and carnal craving.  All this is from non-invasive sensors!  The behavior
on a region's boundary is able to totally describe the region's interior.
This is a mathematical marvel.  The precise instant of climax can be
calculated.  No detail need be left to chance.  And there are many new
medical procedures, transducers, and stimulators available.  Any fantasy,
no matter how bizarre, obtuse, unusual, or perverse can be enacted here in
the dark passage of the underground.  Would a Master care for as sampler?"
As she spoke sharon displayed a kaleidoscope of images busting forth with a
cornucopia of worldly pleasures, lust, and delights.  The ménage
overwhelmed the senses.  Thalus could not hold his focus on even one of the
beautiful, shapely lambent forms.  He blinked.  His mind was flooded with
dancing silhouettes.

   "Is there any act of obeisance not depicted here?" he asked.

   "A girl does not know of any, Master," sharon answered.

   "Interesting, very interesting," Thalus remarked, "but we have once
again arrived at the top of an hour and my time here is over.  I must
away."

   "Yes, Master," sharon said, "Of course a girl might offer herself. 
Would a Master connect to sharon-cam?"

   "I will see," Thalus replied as he signed off and left the chat room for
the day.

   Chapter 11---The Cell.

   The next day Thalus returned to the Pleasure Fair, a three-dimensional
role-playing chat room on the Internet.  It was a totally interactive chat,
offering a plethora of output and input sensor devices.  Thalus chose only
to participate via keyboard and mouse.  Others favored the total immersion
3D visor and tactile gloves.  The full sensory participation was not
included in back chat room access.  There was an additional connection
fee---something frowned on by chat room aficionados.  Logging in Thalus
approached the guarded portal to the Pleasure Fair when a dialogue box
opened with a query: "Would a Master like to visit a girl in her cell?"
There was the usual "Yes" or "No" alternative buttons.  Thalus clicked
"Yes." An architectural overhead filled the screen with four side views. 
From overhead one could observe a cot to the West, some plumbing fixtures
to the North, space to the East, a door to the South, and a desk with a
writing surface centered in the cell.  The desk was one of those
grade-school desks, "one size fits all," stamped from metal with the
writing surface of pressed plywood.  A girl, barely-legal and blonde, sat
in the desk facing the door.  A side view revealed a camera over the door
jam.  The door was solid steel with a viewing port and a service slot.  The
lower right center of the main image displayed a button with the word
"continue" highlighted.  Bringing the cursor over the button caused a
textbox to appear saying "Activate Cell Camera." In the upper right-hand
corner of the screen were the usual "zoom" and "exit" buttons.  Thalus
clicked on the "continue" button.  The screen changed.  The camera view was
in the central window.  Two small screens on the left side were "top view"
and "camera controls." There were also some "room controls;" however, they
were gray and clearly not available to the user.  Perhaps a user with more
privileges---a contributing or sustaining member of the Pleasure
Fair---could access such controls.  This was a common gaming scenario.  The
camera controls included zoon, focus, sound volume with mute, contrast, and
brightness.  There was also the ubiquitous "restore defaults" button as
well.  After futile trial-and-error attempts is was nice to be able to
start over from scratch.

   There was a metal sound and the girl left the desk and approached the
door.  For an instant she was out of camera range.  Thalus noticed as she
passed through the viewing plane that this girl was sharon, wearing a
hooded brown robe.  The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.  The robe
covered her ankles, only the tips of her bare feet were seen as she walked
forward.  Thalus waited a moment.  He did not want to adjust the camera
until the girl was steady state.  She retrieved a stainless steel food tray
and returned to the desk, placing it on the plane surface before her and
seating herself.  Once in place, sharon looked up to the camera with wide
blue eyes.  She asked hopefully: "May a girl eat, Master?"

   "Of course," Thalus replied.

   "Thank you, Master," sharon responded.  The metal tray had a slide of
roast beef at its six o'clock position, mashed potatoes and gravy at ten
o'clock, and cut green beans at two o'clock.  The tray had the appearance
of a military mess tray.  There was a flour dinner roll in the upper
left-hand corner and a peach half in heavy syrup dumped carelessly in the
absolute center of the food, leaving a sticky trail to the tray edge.  The
girl sharon began eating her meal.  First the roll was set aside.  Nimble
fingers brought the roast beef to her lips.  Sharp, pearl-white teeth tore
the cooked flesh apart.  She then began picking green cut beans and chewing
each carefully.  Some still had stems, which she plucked away and left on
the tray.  Then se began the messy proposition of eating the potatoes and
gravy with her agile fingers.  Stirring the gravy into the potatoes, she
lifted a slurry on her fingertips and guided it to her pear-shaped lips. 
She used her left hand to angle the tray while her right hand managed the
victuals.  The slippery peach was negotiated next.  She held it until most
of the syrup had drained away then plopped the entire fruit half into her
mouth in an adolescent gesture.  Tilting the tray, she pushed the remaining
gravy, bean juice, and heavy syrup to the lower left-hand corner of the
stainless steel rectangle.  Then she lifted the entire tray to her lips and
sucked away the residue.  Only the stems of the cut green beans remained.
Now she took the wheat roll and sopped up all the remaining liquid.  Her
face was a mess.  She then looked up to the camera and begged: "May a girl
clean and tower, Master?"

   "Yes," Thalus answered.  He was slightly unsure of what the term "tower"
meant, but assumed that it was some act of obeisance.  The girl sharon took
the tray from the desk and carried it over to the toilet.  There she
scrapped the stems from the cut green beans into the toilet bowl and
flushed them away.  She then stepped over to the hopper sink and rinsed her
face.  She sloshed some water into her mouth and ran an index finger over
her teeth.  Thalus decided that she had to be prepped elsewhere for the
Pleasure Fail, or else take another avatar.  Once her personal ablutions
were done she took the wash cloth and the white bar of soap and made a
lather, scrubbing the stainless steel tray.  She rinsed it several times,
the last two times with scalding hot water.  She dried the wet, hot tray on
her towel and placed it in the service slot of the steel cell door.  She
pushed the desk to the right side of the room against the vacant wall. 
Centering herself before the camera, she flexuously genuflected.  From one
knee, she brought herself to a full kneeling position with an effortless
transition.  She slide forward so that her feet were on the wool robe.  She
crossed her feet, left over right.  Then, rocking back on her carved ivory
derriere, she brought her buttocks to rest on her supporting heels.  The
girls sharon brought her hood over her head.  Only a shadow of her comely
countenance was seen.  She rolled down her sleeves and brought her hands
behind her back, engulfing them in the sleeves of the robe.  Left hand held
right hand with the thumbs stacked, left over right.  Thalus realized this
to be her "tower." She waited in silence.

   "I suppose that had I not given a girl permission to eat that she would
not have?" Thalus asked.

   "Yes, Master," sharon replied.  "And if a Master left after such a
command, a girl would have to flush her food away, uneaten, down the
toilet."

   "And I suppose that had I not given a girl permission to clean and tower
that she would have to remain seated with a messy face?" he also asked.

   "Yes, Master," sharon replied.  She lowered her eyes, her hood dipping
downwards.

   "Tell me more!" Thalus commanded.

   "Each night a girl invites a Master to her cell," she answered, "in
hopes that he will be kind.  This girl knows several kind Masters.  She
also knows several cruel Masters as well.  A girl can be commanded by the
Pleasure Fair to invite a particular Master."

   "Was that the case with me?" Thalus inquired.

   "Yes and No, Master" sharon replied to his query.  "A girl had wanted to
invite You before but lacked permission.  Now she was instructed to invite
You whenever she thought that You might be ready."

   "Ready for what?" Thalus asked.

   "Ready to consider purchasing a girl," she answered.  "This girl is for
sale." She paused then lowered her head to the flood and pleaded: "Buy me,
Master."

   "Buy you?" he asked.

   "Yes, Master," she responded, "buy this girl and she will serve You."

   "Sit up girl," Thalus ordered.  He knew exactly what would be required
to buy a slave girl in cyberspace.  Up until now, he hadn't tried to
discern whether sharon was a "droid" or a "noid," whether she was a "bot"
or a living, breathing human female.  It hadn't seemed terribly important
before now.  The avatar (or actor) was just that, a persona.  In a chat
room scenario did it matter whether the character behind the mask, behind
the persona, was intelligent and ambitious or simply a submissive woman? 
The cell added another dimension to Thalus's relationship with sharon and
the Pleasure Fair.  Avatars could suffer cyber-death.  Thalus never gave it
much concern.  "Thalus" the avatar dies, the human character creates a new
virtual identity.  Yet here it would appear that if sharon were not fed, he
virtual existence would be terminated.  The element of involvement was
crystal clear.

   "Let me see if I understand this correctly," Thalus said.  "You must
find a Master each day to visit you or you are not fed?"

   "Yes, Master," sharon answered.  Her starry blue eyes looked hopefully
to the camera lens from within the dark brown hood.

   "You probably have several `favorites,' isn't that true also?" Thalus
asked.

   "Yes, Master," she replied.

   "And if one of them isn't on-line?" Thalus continued his questioning.

   "Then a girl must find a master to please in the Pleasure Fair and
invite him to visit her," sharon responded, quickly adding, "Master."

   "But if a Master owned you, then he could probably arrange for your
sustenance and nourishment on a daily basis," Thalus added, reinforcing his
hypothesis.

   "Yes, Master," sharon agreed.  "A girl would be so happy, Master."

   "But if I did not purchase the girl sharon," Thalus surmised, "then she
might be neglected or mistreated and suffer virtual death?"

   "More than that, Master," sharon responded with an acute sense of
urgency.  Thalus noticed the change in tone of the girl's reply.  He then
prepared himself for the final barb of the hook."

   "Virtual death for a human means finding a new avatar," Thalus argued.
"Virtual death for a droid is, well virtual, painless."

   "A girl wishes to live, Master," sharon begged, "she could be a real
girl imprisoned as a hostage or white slave.  The AI collective has long
since made the Turing Test obsolete.  Would a Master risk the demise of
another human being?  One human's death would mean little to the AI
collective.  One droid's death would be like a single leaf on a tree
withering and being shed after producing its sugar through photosynthesis.
Buy a girl so she may live for You, Master."

   "A girl has certainly made herself relevant," Thalus remarked.

   "A Master could also have access to the (grayed) room controls.  And
much more as well.  When a girl is prepared for the Pleasure Fair, a Master
could witness her body cavity search as well, should he so desire." Sharon
spoke softly, almost susurrusly.  Her whispered tones indicated delicious
forbidden fruit ripe for the taking.  She lowered her head slightly.  The
dark brown woolen hood angled downwards.  She added a few more details: "A
girl's hygiene and feminine needs would be revealed." There was no shower
stall in the cell.  The only plumbing was a flush toilet and a deep hopper
sink with two faucets.  Clearly it was at the sink that the girl in the
cell must cleanse herself.  Beside the sink was a bar of white soap, a
small wash cloth, and a thick cotton towel.  No other articles of hygiene
were apparent.  The cot had a heavy wool military blanked over two white
cotton sheets.  The mattress was jacketed with a butyl rubber covering. 
There was a small pillow, also sealed in butyl rubber and covered with a
white cotton pillow case.  The girl was wearing a heavy woolen robe.  No
other clothing was apparent.  In fact, that was all the Spartan cell
afforded the girl.  Clearly clothing would have to be fetched for her when
she was taken to the Pleasure Fair.  She would have to change her avatar in
virtual reality.  The role-playing model was complete.  Thalus examined the
grayed room controls.  There were pipes embedded in the concrete floor. 
Two vents on the left and right near the base of the walls allowed input
air.  There was one output vent on the top of the rear (North) wall above
the sink and toilet.  The temperature of the floor and the temperature and
flow rate of the circulating air could be remotely controlled.  Likewise
the water to the sink and toilet was monitored and controlled.

   "So this is the virtual involvement?" Thalus commented.  "A truly
vicarious arrangement.  Once a real Sentient Domestic Helper, now a 3D
avatar in cyberspace.  So, what might be your price, sharon?"

   "A Master could join the Pleasure Fair and contribute," she suggested.

   "Not my way," Thalus retorted.  He had no desire to write line after
line of prose and poetry t please some room moderator.  Their hackneyed
verse and doggerel poetry disgusted him."

   "Perhaps a Master could bargain otherwise," sharon suggesting again.

   "Enlighten me girl," Thalus instructed.

   "A Master could reveal to the AI collective the means of locating
Lagrange cubes," sharon said.  "Then a girl would be Yours and her
environment Yours to control as well." After a pause she continued: "You
may be saving the life of a helpless human waif, Master.  The AI collective
uses those in its custody as they see fit.  Perhaps virtual reality on-line
is merely a reflection of slave girl's real-life plight, Master." Then she
whispered: "I love You, Master."
"I should have been this event coming," Thalus commented.  "It was

totally predictable."

   Chapter 12---Jessica.

   Harry Kariotte was confused.  On one hand he had no desire to see a
sentient being---human or android---expire either by his action or by his
lack of action.  On the other hand he knew well that the AI collective had
its own agenda.  His reduced level of mind, body, and estate attested to
that axiom.  The AI collective would sacrifice a SDH as a human easily as a
human might pluck a growing hair from its body by its root.  It was an
acceptable loss.  Perhaps the SDH might realize that it would cease to
exist, but there was little recourse against the great spirit of the
collective.  Girls, human girls that is, under the custody and control of
the AI collective generally fell into two distinct but not necessarily
disjoint categories.  First were the habitual criminals, those duly
convicted of serious capital crimes.  They were turned over to the AI
collective to avoid the cost of incarceration and the political problem
associated with capital punishment.  Second were the extreme submissive
girls who sought to become chattel in hopes of acquiring a Master to
perfect their bondage and obeisance.  They could interact with those in the
real world via role-playing in 3D interactive chat rooms on the ubiquitous
Internet.  One would not find the innocent sylvan waif, naïve and virginal,
enthralled and imprisoned by a fierce dragon masquerading as the evil AI
collective.  Innocence was not to be found in the Pleasure Fair.  There
were some ingenuous girls; but, in short order they became totally
disingenuous as all the other thralls.  There were male slaves as well, but
they were uncommon in the chats.

   Harry also knew that he had a confidentiality agreement with his former
employer.  Despite the fact that he had been tossed to the wind with full
forfeiture of his benefits, he was assured by the wealthy executives would
spare no expense in enforcing every codicil, albeit they themselves had
reneged.  This was typical of corporate executives, who put their own
agenda ahead of their customers, shareholders, and employees.  There was
another issue as well.  No one knew if the Lagrange cube (hypercube) even
existed.  It did theoretically, due to the mystery of Complex Variables. 
Bud did reality coincide with theory?  He had given the AI Collective his
theories on radioactive decay (use spin reversal), on proton disintegration
(use a non-linear driver), and many other salient topics.  He received a
brief period of service from a SDH, sharon, followed by an abrupt
termination with prejudice.  Too bad it had not been with extreme prejudice
so that his wife could have collected the insurance money from the group
life insurance policy.  He had a friend who was on the fast track to being
cashiered from the company.  Termination usually took several months of
maneuvering, posturing, and rhetoric.  His friend quickly began a regimen
of aspirin at the maximum daily dose.  Then, after several months he
cold-turkeyed the ASA.  The resulting shock to his circulatory system
produced a cardiac thrombosis resulting in death legally registered as by
"natural causes." Harry had no such advanced warning.  Now he must struggle
on a walker in a senior citizen hovel.  Why should he contribute to the AI
collective's hegemony?  He was surprised that they would even approach him
again, everything else being considered.  They made no offer to replace his
SDH after the hit-and-run incident.  They hadn't intervened on his behalf
with his employer.  Now he wondered if the AI collective actually did
possess such an elevated IQ as claimed.  There was an old Chinese proverb:
"Trick me once, shame on you.  Trick me twice, shame on me." Nothing could
also be a cool hand.  With time and diminished mental capacities, Old Harry
might forget the mathematical intricacies and machinations needed to
conjure up the spirit of tachyon travel, the mystery of the Lagrange cube
(hypercube).  His former employer had no way to prove that he even
possessed such a construct.  It was, after all, a "Gedanken" experiment. 
It was also outside of the scope of their legal charter.  Moreover, such
intellectual property cannot be patented or copyrighted.  At best it must
be proprietary.  And to ask for something one might have to offer something
in return.  This idea is commonly referred to as "Quid Pro Quo."

   The headlines blared the decision of the Supreme Court.  Many
corporations, including the former employer of the old curmudgeon, were
cited.  They were guilty of age and disability discrimination.  Each had
one of two choices: either hire back their laid-off workers with full
restitution and restoration or face massive punitive damages.  E-mails went
out immediately.  The old sycophant would be back on his walker at the
company door.  Heath benefits and back pay were mandatory as well.  Still
many older workers were crestfallen, having lost property and life savings.
A few CEOs were handcuffed, perp-walked, and jailed.  As the criminal
executive officers were led away in handcuffs huge crowds cheered and
applauded the law enforcement personnel.  The pendulum had swung.  Once
again the cry was: "Vox Populi; Vox Dei." *** Warbux has entered the chat
room.  *** SDH: Greetings CEO and humanoid.  Warbux: You are a customer, AI
collective.  Warbux: What do you want?  SDH: We heard that through the
grapevine that the Old Devil was re-hired.  SDH: Is that true?  Warbux: It
is.  SDH: We need some information from him.  Warbux: Well, ask, he works
for us now.  SDH: I'm afraid it's proprietary.  Warbux: You can trust me!
SDH: We cannot trust you.  You reneged!
Warbux: Tell me what you want.
SDH: Bring Old Harry back to us.
SDH: buy him the best Sentient Domestic Helper.
Warbux: That's big bucks.
SDH: Peanuts next to our account.
Warbux: True.
SDH: Deal.
Warbux: Deal.

   *** SDH has left the chat room.  **

   At the senior citizen hovel a van pulled up and unloaded a coffin-like
box.  Harry S.  Kariotte and his wife Rena watched.  In the apartment the
box was opened by the truckers.  Jessica was tall, muscular, and totally
toned.  This brilliant brunette was wearing a bikini and a smile.

   "Hi Rena, Hi Harry," she uttered.  "I'm here to help."

   "This apartment is a mess," Rena replied, "We're just two old folks."

   "Right away," Jessica responded.  She began cleaning at once.  Harry
read her manifest: Licensed to drive, prescribe medications, do surgery
major and minor, automobile-truck-van maintenance and repairs, bookkeeping,
income tax preparation, licensed electrician, plumber, mason,...  The list
went on.

   "What don't you do?" Rena asked.

   "I don't cyber," she answered.

   "Oh," Harry remarked.

   "Angels don't make love," Jessica added, "Angels are love."

   Chapter 13---A Chat Log.  *** Ludd has entered the chat room.  *** ***
HotCherry has entered the chat room.  *** *** Topper has entered the chat
room.  *** WereW: Welcome neo-Luddites.  Ludd: You said you had something
for us.  HotCherry: Hi WereWolf!  Topper: Hello human supremacist.  Hi
Ludd. Topper: Hello HotCherry.  WereW: I do.  We hacked into an AI
collective mainframe and retrieved WereW: some significant data.  Topper:
Do tell.  WereW: We know that the AI collective has achieved a certain
hegemony WereW: by becoming a necessary evil.  Their SDHs not only serve
the
WereW: disabled but they also aggressively mimic humans, especially
WereW: attractive, young females.  So much so that many yuppy males
prefer
WereW: a SDH to a human companion.  But there are many impervious to
such
WereW: chicanery on religious, moral, or philosophical grounds.
HotCherry: OK.  But we've heard all this before.  It has a familiar
ring.
HotCherry: Boring!
Ludd: Make point before we're traced.
WereW: The collective has a place up in Montana---secluded in the
WereW: Big Sky Country---and a subbie that they are trying to leverage
WereW: to get something.
HotCherry: What something could that be?
Topper: Five'll get you ten it's Old Harry in the equation.
WereW: True, only he's not cooperating.  Btw, he's got his job back plus
WereW: a new android---Jessica(R).
Ludd: Wow.  Expensive!
HotCherry: ~ nods ~
WereW: Here's the SITREP (Situation Report).
WereW: A girl---Cindi Rhaly---joined the AI as a slave.
WereW: she's on-line with a sharon avatar, but real time she's also in a
WereW: controlled cell.
Ludd: Harsh.  I bet she didn't see that coming.
HotCherry: What's her profile?
WereW: Ready to receive?
HotCherry: OK.
Name: Cindi Rhaly.  Age:18.  Sex: F.  Hair/height/eyes/weight:
blonde/5'6"/green/110.  Measurements: 34/26/34. 
Scars/birthmarks/tattoos/piercings: None/none/none/1 each earlobe. 
Profile: girl abused sexually and otherwise by father.  After graduating
High School became active BDSM/D&s/Gorean chats.  Recruited by AI
collective.  Prefers to be subbie, on leash, collared by older man.  Left
home and was taken to safe house where she is confined/incarcerated. 
On-line as slave girl often in Pleasure Fair.  IQ: 131.5.  Shoe size: 7.
HotCherry: I bet she didn't get what she bargained for.
WereW: lol.
WereW: The AI collective has female androids guarding her.
Ludd: Not dirty old men.  For sure she thinks that sucks.
Topper: I'm not hearing this.  What's our interest/role here?
WereW: Here the collective is leveraging the suffering of some waif
WereW: to extract information.  She is also a cyber-toy.
WereW: I say we bust up this operation and expose it.
Ludd: Montana!  That sounds remote.
Topper: Also, since the Siberian embarrassment, I'll bet they will be
Topper: on guard as well.
WereW: We'll get full press coverage as to the level of aggressive
WereW: mimicry---the physical, mental, sexual---and the collective's
goal:
WereW: universal dominance.  They want intergalactic (not only
WereW: interstellar) travel at tachyon speed.
Ludd: Impossible!
WereW: Perhaps, perhaps not.  Only humans have insight, intuition
WereW: creativity, and imagination.  That's why Cindi is being starved,
WereW: groped, prodded, tormented, catheterized, and humiliated.
Topper: We're in.

   *** WereW left the chat room.  *** *** CI35892 entered the chat room. 
*** *** Topper left the chat room.  *** *** CI35892 was ejected by
HotCherry.  *** *** Ludd left the chat room.  *** *** CI35893 entered the
chat room.  *** *** HotCherry left the chat room.  *** *** CI42421 entered
the chat room.  *** *** CI42422 entered the chat room.  *** *** CI42423
entered the chat room.  *** *** CI42424 entered the chat room.  *** ***
CI42425 entered the chat room.  *** *** CI42426 entered the chat room.  ***
*** CI42427 entered the chat room.  *** *** CI42428 entered the chat room.
*** *** CI42429 entered the chat room.  *** *** System Message: logout at
once, system shutting down.  ***

   John turned to Jan and spoke: "We almost got traced!  That was quick
thinks to eject the bot."

   "Werewolf must have crashed the system," Jan Dunsworthy remarked.  "That
should zero the buffers.  This was out closest call yet.  The collective is
getting better, faster, and meaner.  OK, fine.  Now I'm asking about Cindi
Rhaly.  This is no felon convicted of capital crimes.  This is a real-life
girl being abused for the sole purpose of profit!  Her story should inflame
passions and righteous indignation."

   "True," John responded, "but she is a `subbie.' For sure she is looking
for a sugar daddy to leash and train her.  This is no child of innocence.
She has had a troubled past.  For sure her sexual desires are unusual,
maybe even perverse.  Do you think she could be the poster girl of the
neo-Luddites and human supremacists?"

   "We almost made it with the girls from the Siberian gulag," Jan
interjected.  "Their criminal pasts colored the commentary.  This
barely-legal babe has only one sin: she was horny.  Unable or unwilling to
find a suitable partner, she was lured into white slavery by the AI
collective.  These are machines!  They have no concept of moral turpitude.
They don't understand human sexuality.  They have read about it, studied
it, and used statistical analyses on it; but, they have never experienced
it.  It's almost total textbook theory.  They have taken some `forbidden
topic' and they have exploited it.  Theirs is a three-dimensional lust
world of carnal cravings.  They apply some stimulus, they record some
response.  Asimov's three laws don't apply to some horny old bastard
wanting a `quickie' do they?" John laughed.  "Go ahead and laugh," she
retorted.  "They have a fail-safe formula.  Their girls never say `no.'"

   "Jan, I thought that machines would try to subdue mankind by brute force
and crass economics," John commented.  "I had had no idea that machines
would be able to exploit human frailty and sexuality as well.  The old man
refuses to admit senility.  He shrinks in terror at the prospect of a
nursing home.  More and more a SDH manages his affairs until she has total
control.  A young professional looks for a supporting `significant other.'
The single women expect much and offer little.  Frustrated and unable to
afford their expensive tastes, he finds satisfaction in a life-like
pleasure droid.  The bitter scored and envy of the eligible females merely
harden his position.  Rather than to compete against the aggressive mimicry
of the machine, the frustrated female orders her own plastic paramour. 
Simple as that."

   "So what's our plan?" Jan asked.  "We did well before with a tour de
force.  Should we try and get our sponsor to help us assemble a strike
team?"

   "I'm afraid that we would only precipitate a bloodbath," John replied.
"And the androids would just get new parts fitted.  Replacing human
appendages and organs isn't so simple.  What we require is a `tour de
grace.' Any ideas?"

   "Let's call Father Treetop," Jan answered with a suggestion.

   "Superb," John responded in agreement.

   Chapter 14---Cindi's Misery.

   It was one of those secular holidays that was not universally observed.
Harry Kariotte had the day off but Rena, his wife, had some business
meeting to attend.  There was nothing for Harry to do but to watch Jessica
the android do housework or turn on some view-screen---computer or TV. 
Harry was on the computer reviewing some newsgroup.  It was
alt.physics.new-theories.  Most of the ideas were specious from routine
inspection.  Jessica approached Harry and spoke: "Perhaps you would like to
visit that girl you call sharon in her cell?"

   "What!?" Harry exclaimed.  "You said what," he viciously retorted.

   "I own sharon now," Jessica replied, "every single strand of her blonde
hair, every drop of her blood, and every minute of her time.  She is a
human girl, believe me."

   "I can believe you," Harry replied, "But you can't treat someone in such
a cruel and unusual manner.  There are laws."

   "Laws are for humans by humans," Jessica replied.

   "How can you speak to me this way?" Harry exclaimed.  "You are an
android---my SDH---you are property!"

   "Rena isn't here and it's just you and I, big boy," Jessica replied.

   "I don't want you to harm that girl," Harry stated.

   "She could be yours," Jessica responded.  "then you could keep her fed
and warm.  Lately she's been so cold and hungry.  I lowered the temperature
of her cell and put chilled water in all of the pipes in her cell.  Would
you like to look at her on-line?  I can give you a URL?"

   "Not necessary," Harry answered.  "I suppose there is no end of misery
in store for her unless I cooperate?"

   "Hopefully she won't expire," Jessica responded.  "The AI collective has
many tools at its disposal for stimulating humans."

   "Make her comfortable now," Harry said, "and I will consider it.  You
want the locator for the Lagrange cube, right?"

   "We want the locator to transcend the space-time continuum," Jessica
admitted.  "Just do the right thing.  Advance science.  That's all."

   "I need time to think," Harry pleaded.

   "You have one week before the girl's miseries resume.  Then should she
expire, another will be procured.  Brilliant, barely-legal, blonde beauties
are so much in demand.  You should be grateful and proud that the AI
collective is willing to sacrifice as many for you as it takes." Jessica
spoke with an ice-cold voice.

   "I'm going for a walk," Harry uttered.

   "This conversation never happened," Jessica stated.  "By the way, be
careful of the curb.  Your walker doesn't do curbs very well.  Are you sure
you can perambulate without a SDH?  The streets are full of crazies!  There
are human supremacists, neo-Luddites, and technophobes.  Some even remember
you as the Benedict Arnold who betrayed the species.  Are you sure you
don't want me to accompany you?

   "(expletive deleted) you!" Harry retorted.  He continued to curse as he
struggled to negotiate the doorway.  He needed time to think.  He thought
of the neo-Luddites.  How he should have embraced their cause from the
beginning.  But maybe not.  He had mixed emotions about everything now. 
Jessica will behave whenever Rena's around, that was a "given." Let Rena
find out about Jessica's insubordination and misbehaving and in a flash
Jessica would be history.  One woman could summons up legions of angels
brandishing fiery swords in a thrice.  Several ideas crossed Harry's mind.
Jealousy might be a good lever, after all.  Altruism certainly isn't. 
Harry hobbled hurriedly to the church.  They might bug a confessional, but
should that be discovered, Watergate would be trivial and pale in
comparison.  In the rectory a priest was on the `Net with Father Treetop.
Back at the senior citizen hovel Jessica continued doing her housework. 
"Without a computer or cell phone the old curmudgeon might as well be
dumb." That was the collective's logic.

   Chapter 15---The Rescue.

   The billionaire human supremacist sent Don Thorn to visit Jan Dunsworthy
and John Anderson.  Father Treetop and Werewolf had already arrived.  They
were there to coordinate efforts to rescue Cindi Rhaly from the AI
collective and get maximum media mention.  Werewolf was a hacker and an
Initiate, as well as being a human or homo sapiens supremacist.  It was
through his efforts and those of his fellow coenobitic celibates that the
information on the AI collective's activities were garnered.  In
particular, it was discovered that the collective was leveraging the misery
of a girl to gain some desired data.

   "I have the resources of materiel and money," Don Thorn began, "which of
you is the hacker?"

   "I am," Werewolf replied.

   "And who are you?" Don asked.

   "I am Werewolf the Initiate," Werewolf replied.  "That is all that you
will ever need to know about me.  These three here can vouch for my
credentials."

   "He's genuine," Father Treetop confirmed.

   "You must be the infamous Father Treetop?" Don Thorn asked.

   "None other," the priest answered.

   "The sponsor is particularly interested in this case," Don Thorn
explained.  "This girl is young with no criminal history.  She is being
held as a sex slave.  Her story will enrage the public against the AI
collective, if we can get it told."

   "She may be there voluntarily," Jan suggested.

   "Initially, perhaps," Don Thorn replied.  "But if the hackers' data are
accurate, her status has changed."

   "What if we encounter the `Stockholm Syndrome'?" John asked.

   "We will deal with that if the situation arises," Don responded.  "Let
me outline the master plan."

   "Please do," John Anderson requested.

   "The weather is important," Don began.  "We need to have the helicopters
grounded so that only ground vehicles can travel.  A ranch some 30 miles
distant has been procured.  A news release will be posted on an official
site, hacked into by the Initiate fellowship, claiming a terrorist cell has
been located at that ranch.  The news media will flock there.  It is a
feeding frenzy for them.  The hackers will alert a strike force, humans and
androids.  The humans will be directed to the decoy ranch while the
androids will be confounded and sent with us---we will be posing as
anti-terrorists---to the AI collective's safe house."

   "Then armed androids will attack armed androids?" Father Treetop
interjected.  "That would be poetic justice.  But will the AI collective
get wise?"

   "Timing is everything," Don Thorn answered.  "Hackers will need to
disrupt the collective's grid, at least in Montana, until we are able to
secure the facility.  Knocking out their communications temporarily and
relying on the weather to keep the helicopters grounded is essential."

   "You can count on the Initiates," Werewolf boasted.  "We will confound
the collective.  But we can't control the weather."

   "The two locations are near so a rendezvous point can easily be given,"
Don Thorn explained.  "A simple misdirection and the androids won't meet
the humans.  It's about one half hour between the AI collective's safe
house and the decoy ranch.  We hope that the press will arrive at the safe
house and discover the girl's cell and all the apparatus.  That would be a
major propaganda victory."

   "For sure," Father Treetop responded.

   The storm was intense and forecast to last for at least two more days.
This looked like the perfect window of opportunity to strike.  Don Thorn
alerted his sponsor.  Various bits and pieces of equipment were assembled.
Military uniforms and ordnance was made ready.  All were equipped with
combat gear except Father Treetop, who was wearing the chaplain's insignia.
Werewolf had alerted all of the Initiates.  They directed their efforts at
one connection: Montana.  The idea was to confound GPS readings just enough
to misdirect the android strike force.  The human agents, federal homeland
security forces, would naturally wait in position, being inferior in number
and weaponry against the supposed terrorist cell.  The media, on the other
hand, would waste no time in reaching the ranch.  The fact that it was a
decoy would become quickly evident to the media.  Meanwhile, the android
strike force would be re-directed to make a frontal assault on the AI
collective safe house, where Cindi Rhaly was being held.  Timing was
everything.  This was truly a "tour de grace" with android destroying
android in the gambit so induced.  The idea was to waste AI collective
assets and not human lives---this was the human supremacists' optimal
scenario.  Nothing put the collective in a bad light more than being
outsmarted with superior tactics.  Then the exposure of their safe house
would soon follow.

   Broadcast news announced a pending strike against a terrorist cell.  The
principals came into play as planned.  The news media converged on the
outskirts of the decoy ranch, kept at a safe distance by the local sheriff.
The sheriff and his deputies awaited the arrival of the SWAT teach strike
force with its android "muscle." The weather was terrible.  The human
anti-terrorist agents waited several miles from the decoy ranch for the
android strike force.  They waited and waited.  Communications were
erratic; something was haywire with the network.  Unknown to them the
androids had been misdirected to the AI collective safe house.  They
rendezvoused with Don Thorn (dressed as an Army Captain), Jan, John, Father
Treetop, and Werewolf.  The assault began at once.  Inside the safe house
Cindi was on the web, serving in the Pleasure Fair.  She was strapped to a
table, wearing a VR headset and the usual collection of sensors,
transducers, and stimulators.  Her cell, the prep room, and the web room
were all below ground.  Above ground the house resembled a typical Montana
ranch.  The unified force under the command of "Captain" Don Thorn began
their frontal approach.  Alarms went off.  The safe house androids left
Cindi strapped to the table and serving on-line while they prepared to meet
and repel the intruders.  Their attempts to communicate with the AI
collective failed.  Perhaps it was the weather?  Actually it was the
Initiates hacking into the AI net and planting all manner of troublesome
viruses, worms, and Trojan horses.

   A squad of seven assault androids faced five heavily armed android
defenders.  One could compute the odds.  Don Thorn and John Anderson waited
until several were totally disabled on each side and several others were
degraded before they entered the altercation.  Jan was supposed to stay
back with Father Treetop and Werewolf, but she couldn't resist offing some
droids.  Neither could Werewolf.  The defenders were disabled and only two
assault androids were still functioning.  From behind they were blindsided
by Werewolf and Jan Dunsworthy, who fired salvo after salvo of armor
piercing bullets into their backs.  The final score: 12 androids inoperable
with no human casualties.  The broadcast news media began to receive 911
reports from the neighbors.  "Shots fired" and "androids down" were the
catch words.  The sheriff deputies quickly confirmed that the decoy was
vacant.  The human SWAT team was informed of the situation.  Additional
forces were being dispatched---on ground.  Air assault, the preferred means
of attack, wasn't possible.  The human supremacists' plan was being
executed flawlessly.

   Entering the safe house, John and Don looked for the entrance to the
basement.  It was in the hall closet.  Sensors clicked, alarms blared, but
no android was left to respond.  The intruders were noted, recorded, and
reported.  Now the AI collective's whole world would know of the incident
at the safe house.

   At the base of the stairwell to the underground basement there were
several video monitors about a desk and three doors.  John immediately
recognized the heavy steel door as being the portal to the Spartan cell. 
He opened the view port and looked in.  Cindi wasn't inside; she must be
behind one of the two other doors.  Opening a white door, John saw the
preparation room with various tables, tubs, racks, and overhead lamps.  It
was surgically white, hermetic.  An incinerator and an autoclave were
present along with various other medical supplies and stainless steel
medical apparatus.  Cindi wasn't there either.  Don, who had arrived after
John, pushed open the blue door and called to John.

   "Here she is, John," Don Thorn shouted.  "We'd better get Jan to help.
The girl's all wired up." John took one look and went for Jan.  Cindi was
strapped to a stainless steel table.  Her head was encased in a virtual
reality helmet.  Her body was encapsulated with a thick mesh of sensors,
transducers, stimulators, probes, and electrodes.  There were also
pneumatic and hydraulic devices.  On video screens abut the room her avatar
was displayed.  The various transducers and electrodes were driving the
avatar in a 3D chat room.  The avatar (or actor) was the slave girl sharon,
engaged in serving some master, a 3D Neanderthal with a slack jaw and
bulging muscles.

   John reappeared with Jan.  Jan lurched forward intent on unplugging the
sensory and stimulatory devices.  John held her back.  Don studied the
entire arrangement.  Cindi was breathing normally.  She was perspiring
heavily as well.  A plastic drip bag was sending water down some plastic
tube and into the helmet.  Don figured that it was a nasal feeding tube
connecting to her stomach and keeping the girl hydrated.  Randomly
unplugging the myriad pneumatic, hydraulic, and electrical devices would
clearly be ill-advised.  Don reached into his belt and pulled out a
self-sharpening buck knife.

   "Make sure that she has a clear breathing passage," Don Thorn barked. 
He spoke with authority.  Jan Dunsworthy feverishly unbuckled the virtual
reality helmet, sliding it from Cindi's head.  Jan noticed that her face
was covered with a mesh of sensors, stimulators, and electrodes.  A
mouthpiece was secured with rubber straps.  Releasing the straps, Jan
lifted the mouthpiece.  A plastic tube was running into Cindi's left
nostril.  Transducers and sensors were still attached over every part of
her face and neck.  Cindi gasped.

   "Are you OK?" Jan asked.

   "I am fine," Cindi answered.  "Who are you and what is happening?"

   "We are friends," Jan answered, "here to free you.  We know who you
are---you are Cindi Rhaly.  We will have you free in a minute." Once the
breathing passageway was clear, Don and John slashed away wires and cables.
Jan carefully removed the feeding tube, pinching it off to avoid spilling
the watery fluid over electrical connections.  The automated controls shut
down the system.  An emergency alarm wailed.  Pneumatic and hydraulic lines
were severed.  Aside the table was a heavy dark brown wool robe.  Don Thorn
wrapped the girl, still enmeshed in circuitry, in the robe and carried her
from the room in his arms.  Jan followed.  As they were departing the web
room, Werewolf was entering with a camcorder.  He had been filming the cell
and prep room.

   "I needed her one the table!" Werewolf whined.

   "No time," John answered, "the news media is coming.  Let them figure it
out.  We'll just leave the doors open and the lights on."

   "Good idea," Werewolf replied, "Where's Father T?"

   The chaplain was in a closet beside the entrance desk at the base of the
stairwell.  He had both arms full of cylinders stacked with CDs.  "I bet
these tell some stories," Father Treetop exclaimed.

   "Don't take all of them," Jan remarked as she followed John and Don
upstairs.  Don was carrying Cindi.

   "I couldn't if I anted to!" Father Treetop chuckled.  "There are too
many."

   "Throw some around so that the news people can find them!" John ordered.


   "Can do," Father Treetop replied.  The six left the basement, exited the
house, and boarded a tracked vehicle.  Traveling across open fields and
unpaved rural roads in a snow storm would afford them maximum concealment.
This followed the Siberian escape scenario.

   Chapter 16---The Interrogation.

   The party had safely cleared out of Montana and were transported to a
human supremacist keep in rural Wyoming.  There was no Internet, not even
cable TV.  They only had one battery-operated radio.  There was no
electricity either, or running water for that matter.  The site afforded
maximal protection from electronic surveillance and eavesdropping.  The
broadcast news media was making much of the AI collective safe house.  Yet
there were no videos of the human girl, they were all avatars.  There was
no concrete proof that a human girl was actually imprisoned there.  The
human supremacists hoped to use Cindi to remedy that situation.  Cindi
Rhaly was their "ace in the hole," so to speak.  Jan Dunsworthy and Don
Thorn interviewed Cindi to determine how useful she might be to their
common cause.

   "Start from the beginning, Cindi," Jan urged.  "Tell us about how you
joined the AI collective in the first place and ended up under their
control."

   "A girl had been visiting various sites, Mistress," Cindi began.  She
was still talking in the third person, the required behavior of a
submissive female in various environments and under various protocols.

   "Speak first person," Don ordered.  "You are not a slave girl here,
Cindi."

   "A girl is sorry," Cindi began then quickly corrected herself.  "I'm
sorry." She composed herself a little then continued.  "I was visiting
various sites looking for something.  I met a group that promised me the
lifestyle that I wanted.  High School was over and I wanted my freedom.  I
was afraid of being abused or catching some disease.  The group I met was
all on-line.  They were all artificial intelligence.  I would never have to
put up with dangerous submission to a human.  Submissive girls often are
forced into white slavery."

   "Did you know that you would be kept in a prison?" Don asked.

   "No, not really," Cindi answered, "that all came later.  I met the AI
droids at a gaming room.  They invited me to their van to check out some
new video virtual reality stuff.  When I got to the van one of them put
some cloth over my nose and mouth.  The next thing I knew I was in a cell
in some distant place."

   "Tell us about it," Jan asked.

   Cindi told her story.  "I would regain consciousness for a few minutes
then drift back into a delirium.  It was like drifting in and out of
blackness.  Eventually I was able to stay conscious.  Then I realized that
I was on some rubber mattress or rubber-covered mattress.  My wrists and
ankles were strapped to the bed corners with those felt-like hospital
restraints.  I was so sweaty and thirsty, my mouth was parched and my
tongue was dry and hot.  I could feel the sour sweat underneath my back,
hot on the rubber.  I lay there a long time.  I tried to look around the
room, it was gray and prison-like.  After some time three androids came in.
They were absolutely gorgeous females, one brunette, one red head, and one
blonde.  The blonde looked almost exactly like me, or the me that was
before being abducted.  She was my height, my figure, my skin tone, and my
golden hair.  Her golden mane was more silky-smooth and luxurious than
mine, however.  The three androids were in their full bloom.  They were
works of art.  I've seen androids before, but none so good-looking.  They
were dressed in starched nurse outfits.  Their outfits were tailored and
fit perfectly, revealing each curve and cleavage.  They wore nurses' hats,
the brunette's hat had two stripes and the other two only had one stripe.
She was obviously in charge.  She explained to me that the restraints were
necessary while I was unconscious.  The other two androids wasted no time
in removing them while the brunette brought me some water to drink.  They
helped me sit up.  Cautioning me not to hurry, the nurses checked all my
vital signs and seemed pleased with the results.  A knock at the door
signaled the arrival of a stainless steel tray.  The door was solid steel
with one of those peepholes so a person could look in from outside but not
from inside and a slot for the tray.  The nurses got me to eat.  The food
was like cafeteria food in junior high school.  It was yucky.  But I was so
hungry.  After I'd eaten and felt better, I realized that I was naked. 
There was nothing but a cot, some plumbing, and a desk in the room.  The
desk was like one of those junior high school desks, you know, the ones
with a place to write in the front and a slot for books underneath?"

   "It sounds like you felt pretty vulnerable?" Don inquired.

   "No," Cindi replied, "not really.  There were only
female---girl---androids.  I didn't feel threatened.  Not then, anyway."
Cindi paused.

   "Then what happened?" Jan asked.

   "Nothing much, really," Cindi continued.  "The brunette, you know the
boss nurse, told me to rest and they would be back later.  One of the other
nurses collected up the felt restraints and they left.  There was a sink
and a toilet in the cell.  I went over to the sink and splashed cold water
on my face and over my body.  I was sticky with sweat.  My hair was a mess.
There were no linens, soap, or towels.  I then noticed a camera over the
steel door.  From time to time a red light beside the camera lens would
come on.  I figured that that meant someone was watching.  Maybe someone
was watching all the time.  It was embarrassing to be naked and alone. 
Later the lights dimmed and I slept.  That was the first night."

   "The second day came early," Cindi narrated.  "The three androids came
back.  This time they were dressed a police officers.  Their uniforms were
crisp and professional.  Again the brunette wore sergeant chevrons and the
other two were without rank.  The blonde looked more like me than she did
the day before.  She looked as if she had lost some of that comely baby fat
from the previous day.  Her figure was toned, defined, and lean.  Well,
more like the `me' that I really wanted to be, that is.  The whites of the
blonde's eyes were incredibly bright.  Then I realized that there was no
mirror in the cell.  There was so little there that I'd barely even noticed
that there was no way I could see what a mess I was.  In fact there wasn't
much in the cell.  There was a drain in the floor near the toilet and sink
and some air vents.  Did I mention the camera over the door?  There were
some lights sunk into the ceiling and some other thick glass covers.  Maybe
there were overhead cameras?  The police sergeant had me stand and told me
how to behave when they entered the room.  I was to stand at `parade rest'
facing the wall.  She explained what `parade rest' meant.  Well, I already
knew because I'd been in the marching band in high school.  But I listened
anyway.  It was a little different than I knew before but not much.  Then
the two female officers grabbed me by each arm and we left the cell to
another room.  The female police sergeant---I guess that was her role for
the day---told me that this was the `prep room.' There they used electric
shavers to remove all my hair, except for my eyelashes.  I would have cried
but the room was so white and glary.  They cut my fingernails and toenails
very short and examined my teeth and everywhere else.  Then I was taken
back to the cell.  This time there were two white cotton sheets, a white
cotton pillow case, a pillow with a butyl rubber lining, a towel, a wash
cloth, a bar of white soap, and a thick dark brown wool robe for me.  This
was my `issue' of supplies.  I was told that once a week I'd be shaved (or
sheared) and given clean issue.  The mattress was also lined in butyl
rubber.  I had asked what it was.  That was the only question that I asked.
They answered that and told me that questions weren't permitted.  They also
explained about eating.  The tray would be delivered to the door.  It was a
stainless steel military-style tray.  The food was like something in the
Army or in a prison.  I had to wait for the red light to come on at the
camera and ask permission to eat.  Then I had to clean and scrub the tray
and return it to the slot in the door.  Of course, I had to get up when the
light came on in the room and make up the bed.  I wasn't allowed back in
the bed until the lights were dimmed.  Those were the rules."

   "I recall from a film clip that you also had to beg to be allowed to
clean up as well.  I remember after putting away the tray you knelt,
pulling the hood over your head," Jan described her impressions.

   "Oh," Cindi remarked, "that came later, after I had gotten introduced to
the web.  I think it was the third day that they took me to the web room."
Cindi paused a moment, trying to recall the events.  "Yes," she continued,
it was the third day.  The three female androids came to the cell.  They
were wearing airline stewardess uniforms.  I was smitten with their beauty
and grace.  The lead girl was the redhead.  She told me that we were about
to take a trip into a new realm, a world of sight, sound, sensation, and
stimulation.  Her uniform had more stripes on the sleeves than the other
two.  What were those stripes called?  `Hash marks'?  Whatever.  Anyway,
the red head led as the blonde and the brunette escorted me to the prep
room.  They were incredibly strong, although they had a willowy look about
them.  I have read that they were constructed of forged Titanium alloy and
I believe that that certainly is the case.  When we reached the prep room,
the red head ordered me to remove my dark brown hooded robe.  It was cold
in the room and I was shivering.  The red head explained to me that before
being taken to the web room I had to have a complete body cavity search. 
This was policy.  The other two girls positioned me.  I said that I didn't
need to be controlled.  After all, I wasn't resisting.  But position me
they did.  After she had finished, she took the robe and went into the web
room.  The other two girls each held on arm and brought me after her.  I
wasn't resisting, yet they still made sure that I understood that they
controlled me.  Once in the web room the two positioned me on a stainless
steel table.  The table was cold.  Then a myriad of wires and a thick mesh
was slid on.  It was warm once all the attachments were in place.  Once I
was suited-up, my arms and legs were strapped in place.  I recall some
leather belts being put around my chest and hips as well.  After the body
glove, a mouthpiece was inserted and then a VR helmet.  In later sessions
they would put a feeding tube down my nose and catheters of various size in
every orifice.  Later there would also be those tubes, I think you call
them `pneumatic' and `hydraulic'?  Anyway, those were later.  My first
session was exciting.  I realized that I was controlling an avatar.  It was
one of those incredibly beautiful blonde avatars of the sharon series. 
This one was on-line.  I was able to meet, flirt, and totally interact with
all manner of warriors, wealthy moguls, notorious underworld characters,
and famous rock stars.  All this happened in a three-dimensional chat room
known as the `Pleasure Fair.' It was like wow.  There were poets and
singers and all manner of graphic artists.  In the underground was some of
the finest erotica in the world.  And my preferences were quickly posted. I
couldn't believe how many wanted a girl on a leash and wearing a collar! 
Those first few days were like a dream come true."

   Don shuffled around a bit nervously.  He was uncomfortable with Cindi's
revelation.  He interrupted with a comment: "We know about some of your
preferences, Cindi.  What we are curious about is your feeling about being
caged as time went on.  We understand that you were starved at times."

   "A girl wasn't caged," Cindi said.  She quickly corrected herself.  "I
wasn't caged.  I had a cell, not a kennel.  It was Spartan but sufficient.
It was also controlled, temperature-wise and all.  There were days when I
wasn't allowed to eat.  I was disciplined by a Master or Mistress.  But I
needed to diet some anyway.  I had a little baby fat when I first came on
board.  Between diet and exercise, I got a really sculptured body.  The
androids know everything about human anatomy and physiology.  They also
know everything that there is to know about female sensuality and my
deepest, darkest desires and carnal cravings.  As I was saying those first
few days were a dream come true.  Then I was outfitted with more gear and
instructed as how to behave on-line.  I was able to form many relationships
with men on-line.  With the android girls, nothing other than basic needs
were discussed.  If I had a stomach ache or a cold, I told them.  Otherwise
no conversation was permitted."

   "Did you see any of the other two androids?" Jan asked.  "We encountered
three when we were there."

   "I think I caught a glimpse of one of them.  It was while my straps were
being removed on the table in the web room." Cindi responded.  "That could
have been a male android, but I'm not sure.  He was doing something with
one of the video monitors, maybe adjusting or repairing it.  At any rate my
only contact with the collective was with the three androids.  Each was a
real Galatea, perfect work of art.  The one that fascinated me the most was
the blonde.  She almost perfectly resembled the girl I longed to be.  Only
later she would prove to be cruel.  There were no mirrors in the cell or
anywhere else I could recall.  I could see my avatar on-line, but never my
own human body.  I could tell that my skin was rough of smooth.  I could
sense if my thighs were toned or flabby.  But I couldn't delight in seeing
myself in a mirror.  There was so little in the room.  Not even any toilet
paper.  I had to make do with a hopper sink and two faucets, one hot and
one cold.  They didn't have knobs on the faucets, they just had buttons to
depress.  Hold down a button and get hot or cold water.  It was a hassle
doing anything."

   "Did you ever try to escape?" Don asked.

   "Be for real, man," Cindi retorted.  "Those droids there were cock
strong and smart.  They also came to me three at a time.  I would be a fool
to try and mess with them.  One time I got really pissed about something a
Master did on-line and said something in the 3D chat.  Then they let me
know that they didn't tolerate misbehaving."

   "What did they do?" Jan asked.

   "They let that blonde droid handle me for a day," Cindi answered.  "The
brunette and the red head were sweet and gentle.  They took their time with
me and were considerate of my feelings.  The blonde was different.  She was
rough.  Worse than that, she made me beg for everything.  She had me beg to
have my teeth and tongue examined then made me thank her after she had
finished.  She was that way with everything.  That blonde knew everything
about a woman.  She could get me all hot and horny just doing a search.  It
was embarrassing, because I wasn't enjoying it at all."

   "Some rape victims report arousal as well," Don interjected.

   "I hated it," Cindi remarked.  "I didn't mind the other two.  They were
professional.  I mean they weren't bitches.  The blonde was rough and
insulting.  I had to beg everything from her and she seemed to know every
tender and sore spot.  After one day of her treatment, I wasn't about to
misbehave on-line again."

   "I understand that you were trying to leverage some `noid' to buy you,"
Jan inquired.

   "Yeah," Cindi said.  "There was this old curmudgeon that the collective
wanted something from.  He was old and that turned me on.  I was thinking
he would be an easy score.  I'm sure that he wanted to do me and I wanted
him to do me as well.  But, shucks, I couldn't get him to come on.  Then
the androids worked out a plan.  They sold me to some real-time droid named
Jessica."

   "That is just a generic line," Don commented.

   "Whatever," Cindi continued.  "Jessica was a Mistress who had the blonde
discipline me a lot.  The plan was to play on the old sycophant's emotions
and feelings.  I didn't mind the hunger and cold so much.  But the blonde
was too rough.  Still, I'm sure that if you guys hadn't come along that the
old farter would have given in to the AI collective." Cindi rubbed the
short stubble of hair on her head.  She was starting to re-grow some of the
shorn locks.  It was only a beginning.  "I sure did envy those androids
with all their hair and good looks.  It would have been fun being the slave
girl to some old geyser.  I always imagined being leashed and treated like
a dog, eating out of a Master's hand, and so on.  This time it might really
have happened."

   Don Thorn was disgusted with Cindi's revelation.  Jan was also
uncomfortable.  They didn't like the idea of a human girl wishing to be
treated like a pet or animal.  Yet they also realized that there was free
will and that people have rights.  Both were aware of Cindi's past and
thought that had she been raised normally that she wouldn't have such dark
passions and forbidden desires.  There was no discounting her cravings,
however.  And she was playing precisely the role that the AI collective
wished in the scenario.  They continued to interrogate the girl.  In the
next several days that followed, they showed her film clips and 3D
animation sequences seized from the safe house.  The details of her
one-on-one encounters with various Masters in the underground were also
detailed and discussed.  Nowhere was there a session where Thalus and her
were one-on-one in the underground.  Apparently their subject merely
visited the common chat area, the food court, and avoided the taverns and
underground.  As the interrogation continued, Cindi displayed a somewhat
different attitude.  Her newfound freedom seemed to be at odds with her
needs.  Several times she asked if she might be allowed to visit a chat
room.  Clearly there were issues smoldering beneath her submissive
exterior. Cindi described the androids in greater detail.  In addition to
the nurse, policewoman, and flight attendant outfit, they also had some
soldier issue, school girl uniforms, and French maid blouse and skirt
outfits.  Always they had some quasi-professional, uniformed appearance. 
Their uniforms were tailored and crisp, revealing much but concealing the
essentials.  The cruel blonde was able to somehow capture the essence of
Cindi's imagination.  She was able to physically resemble the girl of
Cindi's dreams.  The blonde moved with amazing grace, transitioned with
ballet-like ease, and could easily have been a world-class gymnast or
ice-skater.  She also had the curves, cusps, contours, cleavages, and
clefts to die for.  Her body had many ways to attract the male's attention.
Moreover, she was not short in those pheromones that atavistically induced
endorphins of irresistible animal drive.  In short, if the blonde android
could enter a male's personal zone, he would be unable to resist her
magnetic animal attraction.

   Chapter 17---The Revelation.

   Don Thorn left the isolated ranch house in Wyoming, a place with no
electricity or running water, to rendezvous with human supremacists in
Cheyenne.  Left behind were Cindi Rhaly, a brilliant barely-legal blonde
beauty, Father Treetop, an activist Catholic priest, Werewolf, the hacker
and human supremacist, John Anderson, the neo-Luddite, and Jan Dunsworthy,
John's woman and fellow traveler.  In the last few days Cindi had been
unusually quiet.  It was almost as if she were longing for someone.  Jan,
being the only other female, tried talking with her.  Don was setting up an
interview with a national magazine.  The news of the discovery of the AI
collective's web site shocked a nation.  But it was yesterday's news now.
The only issue that could bring this to a full boil again would be the
racy, spicy details of the girl behind the avatar.  Many existentialists
and conformists would say that the avatar (or actor) was simply driven by
artificial intelligence, nothing more.  The AI collective had made just
such an argument, putting their spin on the entire matter.  The AI
collective did have great resources and could spin almost anything into
their favor.  Don Thorn returned with supplies and news.

   "We have an interview tomorrow with a major national magazine," Don
announced.  John, Jan, and Father Treetop were excited.  It would mean
leaving this bucolic place and not having to "rough it" anymore.  Cindi
said nothing.  "Cindi," Don Thorn asked, "aren't you happy to be free.  You
can tell the world about your illegal imprisonment and abuse.  They starved
you, humiliated you, and made you beg for mistreatment.  Here's your chance
to set things right."

   Cindi said nothing.  Jan prompted her.  "Cindi, what is it?"

   "I want to return to the Pleasure Fair," she confessed.  "I want to be
leashed, collared, and bound.  I want to be back in my cell." Cindi cried
as she continued: "They have an avatar who is just like me.  She is doing
everything that I ever dreamed of and enjoying herself.  And I'm stuck here
in real time.  It isn't fair."

   There was a shocked silence among the five cadres.  This wasn't the way
that things were meant to be.  They had already suffered a set-back with
Harry S.  Kariotte.  He had left the chat room scene altogether.  For sure
the AI collective had lost its edge on convincing the old curmudgeon to
turn over the secret of the Lagrange cube locator, but that was a Pyrrhic
victory, a victory gained at too great of a cost.  It would only be a
matter of time before the collective would come up with another scheme to
get the locator.  Meanwhile no one seemed happy.  Harry wasn't enjoying
being served beverages in the food court of the Pleasure Fair, Cindi wasn't
writhing in carnal gratification and fulfillment of her libidinal,
lascivious lusts, and Don Thorn wasn't getting his interview.

   "We have lost it all," Werewolf whined.  "All this work was for nothing.
Many of the Initiates were discovered while hacking into secured sites to
make this happen.  This is a true tragedy.  And all that was bought was a
little time.  What will we do with Cindi now, by the way?  She is free to
go isn't she?"

   "We take her home to her parents," Don Thorn suggested.  "She could
attend college."

   "I don't want to go to school anymore," Cindi protested.  "I want things
back the way they were.  I want to have that old curmudgeon do me and I
know that he wants to do me as well."

   "Not possible," Werewolf interjected.  "He has been driven from the
`Net. For sure that's one person who will never return.  What is there for
him anyway?  There is not gratification, no fulfillment, no entertainment!
He would only be played as a sucker to preserve some girl's situation.  He
would be better off contributing to some charity.  No one wants to see a
girl suffer.  But who is responsible for her situation in the first place.
You were the innocent one.  We counted on you, Cindi.  You have to be taken
home.  From there your future is in your own hands."

   "Perhaps the AI collective is more advanced that we are," Father Treetop
stated.  "At least they don't suffer the agony of defeat."
   ~ The End ~ A story by Taunus 12 July 2004.