Jack Dann - Dangerous Games

“Think about it,” Joanne said solemnly. “Just… think about it.”

Then she was off again, heading for another table, the flycam following her like an airborne puppy. “Can we at least get some coffee?” the first student called after her.

“What in the world is that fool girl up to?” Tom murmured.

“Taping another episode of her net show.” Chet watched her progress across the dining room. “ Joanne’s Place , something like that…”

“But this isn’t her place.” Tom was bewildered. “It’s Ray’s. Ray’s Diner. What’s she doing, some kind of TV show?”

As always, Tom was behind the times. No surprise there; he was still trying to get over Bush losing to Clinton. But Bill recognized the technology; eight years might have gone by since he retired as physics teacher at the local high school, but he still kept subscriptions to popular science magazines.

Flycams were miniature spinoffs of unpiloted military reconnaissance drones. Initially intended to be used for law enforcement, only police departments were able to buy them at first, but it wasn’t long before they became inexpensive enough to enter the consumer market, and now they were available at electronics stores for approximately the same price as a high-end camcorder. Early versions were remote-controlled, but later models had the benefit of newer technology. They could be programmed to automatically track someone by his or her body-heat signature and voice pattern and follow them around, during which time they would record everything he or she did and spoke, with the data being transmitted to a nearby datanest. Bill figured that Joanne had probably parked the nest in the kitchen, or perhaps under the lunch counter.

“It’s a net show, Tom.” Chet watched Joanne perform for another pair of truckers seated at the counter. Now she was playing the coy vixen while she took their orders; she had loosened the top button of her blouse, and she was letting them get an eyeful of pink cleavage as she freshened up their coffee. The drone waited overhead, its mike and lenses catching everything. “She’s got that fly-thing following her around while she works, and when she’s done at the end of the day, she takes it home and makes it into another episode.”

“Like for a TV show, you mean.”

“The net.” Chet gave him an arch look. “Don’t get out much, do you? No one watches TV anymore ’cept old duffers like us.”

“Hey, did anyone catch Miami Vice last night?” Garrett, always the peacemaker. “They showed the one where Crockett and Tubbs…”

“See what I mean?” Chet waggled a finger at Garrett, cutting him off. “We’re used to shows about make-believe characters in make-believe stories, but that’s not where it’s at anymore. Now you can go out, buy one of those things, hook it up to your DVD and your home computer…” He snapped his fingers. “You’ve got your own show.”

“My wife really likes that stuff.” Garrett had surrendered; no sense in trying to talk about an old cop show in perpetual rerun on a local cable station. “Every night, she sits down in the den and just searches back and forth, looking for the newest shows people have put on.”

“On her computer?” Slowly, Tom was beginning to catch on. “You mean, like on… whatchamacallit, web sites?”

Bill nodded. “Sort of like that.” He didn’t add that the web sites were old tech; no sense in confusing him any further. “The net has all these different nodes, millions of them, and you can rent time there, put in your own program. Anything you want.”

“Anything?” Tom’s eyes widened. “Like… you mean… anything you’ve recorded with one of those…?”

“Yes. Anything.”

Yes, anything. Bill had his own desktop system, a decrepit old Mac he had been nursing along for years with mother boards and internal modems bought from online junkyards or cannibalized from CPUs purchased at flea markets. Slow as autumn sap from a maple tree, but it was enough to let him patch into the net if he didn’t mind waiting a few extra minutes.

He didn’t mind, although there wasn’t much worth looking at, really. Too much homemade porn, for one thing; every fool with a flycam seemed to think he was king stud of the universe when he got in bed with his wife or girlfriend, and wanted to share his glory with the world. Only slightly less prevalent were the boatloads of fanatics who sincerely believed that they had stumbled upon vast conspiracies involving crashed UFOs, biblical prophecies, and political assassinations; their flycam caught them standing outside military bases, government offices, or ancient Egyptian ruins, delivering rants fascinating only for the width and depth of their meaninglessness.

Those shows were easy to ignore, yet they were also the ones made by thousands of ordinary people during the course of their daily lives. They modeled their shows after the TV programs of their youth- Cheers , Seinfeld , and Major Dad for the sitcom enthusiasts; ER, Melrose Place , and Law & Order for the would-be dramatists-and tried to live up to Hollywood tradition. Convenience store clerks who fancied themselves as comedians. Night watchmen thinking they were action heros. Bored housewives staging their own soaps. Teenagers solving mysteries in shopping malls. Truck stop waitresses producing sitcoms, starring themselves in the lead role.

Joanne disappeared into the kitchen, pausing for only a moment to carefully hold open the door for the flycam. “There she goes,” Chet murmured. “Probably going to check the system, maybe put in a fresh disk, put a fresh battery in the ’cam. When she gets home, she’ll look at everything she got today, edit it down, maybe add some music and a laugh track. Then she’ll put it on the net. Joanne’s Place, staring Joanne the wisecracking waitress. Just a poor ol’ country girl trying to make it through the day.”

He picked up his coffee cup, saw that it was empty, put it back in its saucer. “Jesus H. Christ. And all I wanted was…”

The door swung open again and a lean young man in a cook’s apron carried out a couple of plates of food. “There’s Ray Junior now,” Garrett said. “Let’s see if we can get him over here.” He raised a hand. “Hey! Ray!”

Ray acknowledged him with a nod of his head before he went to the two drivers who had complained about their breakfast. He delivered the re-orders and spent a minute apologizing for the foul-up, then scurried around the room, pouring coffee for other disgruntled patrons. Bill couldn’t help but to feel sorry for him. Ray Junior had taken over the diner a little over a year ago when his dad retired and moved to Florida; he had done well to keep the family business going, especially on this part of the interstate where nearly every other truckstop cafe was owned by one restaurant chain or another, but he couldn’t afford to lose regular customers.

“Ray, what’s going on with Joanne?” Chet asked when Ray finally got to their table. “I’ve been here nearly a hour now and she hasn’t taken our orders.”

“I’m really sorry about this.” Ray had fetched a cup for Bill and was pouring coffee for everyone. “I’ll get her over here as soon as she comes off break.”

“She’s taking a break.” Chet glanced meaningfully at the others. “At least the second one she’s had since I’ve been here.”

“I’ll get her back here.”

“You ought to fire her. She’s more concerned with that damn toy of hers than with doing her job.”

“Well…” Ray Junior absently wiped a rag across the table. “Y’know, Chet, I really can’t do that. Joanne’s been here for nearly eighteen years. She’s like family. And…”