A Future We'd Like to See 1.60 - The Chain Rule By Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne (Copyright 1994) --------------------------------------------------------------- Please copy this story and distribute it to ten of your best friends, who should then distribute it to ten of their best friends, etc. Archived at : etext.archive.umich.edu /pub/Fiction/FWLS. Your dreams will come true. Read on. --------------------------------------------------------------- "No, the complete works of Billy Joel go THERE," I said, pointing with a pen ObjIcon. "He's eighties more than he's nineties, so he belongs in the blue wing." "Whatever," the hacker tyke whined. "Who cares? So he's not in the right decade. It's not like anybody remembers this ancient stuff." "Alright, let's look at it this way. What's your favorite kind of music?" "I dig grunge mostly," he said, setting the box of recordings down on the museum floor. "Okay. What if I were to tell you that grunge was actually a throwback to the nineteen nineties?" "I'd say you're full of shit," he calmly insulted. "Everybody knows grunge was started by Stomach Contents a long time ago. It's common knowledge." I rooted through my audio bin and tossed him a splotchy blue disk. "Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit. THAT is the original grunge." The kid toyed with the disk, examining the texture mapped ocean patterns on the silver base. He span it, and placed it near his ear, triggering the ObjIcon's playback mode. "This isn't grunge," he said. "Where're the keyboards?" "Grunge didn't have keyboards back then," I said. "Just a guitar, bass and drum, usually." "Then it's not grunge," he said. "It sounds close enough to fool an old fart like you, though." "Don't forget who's paying you, kid." "Big deal," he said, picking up the Billy Joel crate again. "I could make twice as much hacking networks." "Then why aren't you?" I asked, smirking. "Don't feel like it," he replied, marching off to the blue wing, MPEG-CD2s rattling in the crate. I picked him well; some junior high type. Just got a computer and decided that VOSNet was for lamers (he had SOME intelligence). He liked to claim he was some powerful hacker type, but he didn't even know how to make his own objicons. That was the key; he needed the money but couldn't admit that he didn't know how to get it himself. Perfect for a toadie job. The attitude was common, though. Nobody seemed to realize just how pop culture worked. In a compressed area, like a single planet, trends repeat every thirty years. In the universe, it takes a little longer... trends have more room to spread, and spread slowly through the populace. Grunge was just starting to to peak around C'atel, the city that 'spawned' it. Respawning is a better term. The Golden Age, the twentieth century, was well into revival without anybody knowing it. The whole concept of two nets, one corp controlled and the other anarchy controlled was straight out of the very late twentieth century, when SubNet formed as a free, uncontrolled alternative to the pay-service dominated and government regulated Internet. There was conflict back then too, mirroring the hacker purges of this decade, and eventually things settled down. How quickly humanity forgot itself after getting warp technology! Internet fell into disuse, as holophone technology spawned chat services, 1-900 lines and information servers. Even this was starting to go the way of nets, as the kids and terrorists alike went on underground links to avoid Terran Confederation encryption chip policies. Then we come to VOSNet and UberNet, and we're full circle for the third time. The silly thing is that people claim it's an original idea. Like gangsta folk music is original, like backwards hats are original, like cheaply produced kids' action shows with recycled foreign footage are original. "We almost done?" the kid asked, returning from the blue wing. "The War of the CyberTroops is coming on HV." I grinned. "If only you knew... yeah, okay, you're done for the day." "Great!" the kid shouted. "I gotta get a good dose of HV to counteract all this old stuff you've had me lugging around. No offense, N.M., but you need to get into the present." "I'm already there," I told the kid as his virtual form vanished. * The Museum was my final triumph. It took a few years of vacationing, searching for all the information available on the late twentieth century. Fortunately for me, I found about 20% of it in the form of a nice girl named Help... files complete, my goal in life was over and done with. What to do afterwards was the question. I tried vacationing some more, but it just wasn't the same without the information quest. What to do, what to do. Impart my knowledge upon the masses, of course! A vast virtual museum, loaded with the tokens of culture that we all know and love from the sixties through the zeroes. A remodelled version of Jimi Hendrix's burnt guitar. Platform shoes. Mirrored balls. Punk outfits. Select items from the Sharper Image. A re-created MTV video award. And the Library... everything you've ever wanted to know, see, or hear. Seattle recordings. Woodstock '69 AND '94 bootlegs. Energizer Bunny commercials. The complete works of Gary Larson. Plus, archives of alt.religion.kibology and alt.culture.internet from newgroup to rmgroup. (That was after the Great Newgroup War between Joel Furr and his long lost evil twin, which laid waste to a great portion of Usenet before both of them died from exhaustion in front of their respective terminals.) It was a masterpiece. Everything laid out in little dioramas, detailing pop culture as it was and is known. All made possible by the fine folks of UberNet, where information is still free. That's the problem. Like Internet vs. SubNet and Mainstream Holophone vs. Protected Links, VOSNet vs. UberNet had its little drawbacks. I could probably get more visitors in VOSNet, but the fees that they charge for space rental are horrendous. On UberNet, it's free, but you have to deal with wanna-bes and the occasional punk who wants to crack your system because he has nothing better to do. Still, it's free, and that's a good thing. * I locked up my system (metaphorically, I was locking the door of the museum and barring the windows) and preparing to jack out when I bumped into him. The man was wearing a simple ObjIcon... a polygonal three- piece suit made of neon green. Green tie, green pants, green jacket. A yellow happy face topped the green visage, spherical and perfect. "Hello, friend," he said. "I see you're an enterprising businessman. What exactly is this building?" "The Golden Age Museum," I responded, tucking the keys in my pocket and velcroing the pocket (thus sealing the encryption key from public access). "We're not open yet, though. We should be ready to roll in a week." "I'm a businessman too," he said. "Pulled myself out of the gutter. The government repossessed my car and my house. Luckily, though, I still had my computer. With my computer, I'm now building a small fortune. Would you like to know how?" "No. Excuse me," I said, preparing to jack out. The happy faced man placed a friendly hand on my shoulder. "Computers are the key," he said. "They're fast and efficient, and coupled with a good program, they can make money. Here's the trick." The man pulled a small envelope out of his pocket. "This envelope contains instructions," he said. "A program, if you will. A program that can earn you $50,000 dollars or more whenever you execute it." "What, it hacks a bank?" I asked, taking the envelope from his hand and examining it. "Certainly not! This is one hundred percent legal under Earth law." "Terra, you mean," I corrected. "Same thing. Here's the trick. You read that letter. If you like what it says, you can keep it for a mere five credits. Find ten of your closest friends and give them copies of the letter. If they like it, have them wire me five credits for service fees. My account number is on the bottom of the letter. That's all." "How does this make money?" I asked. "Simple! On the letter is a program that can enhance your mind's logic and planning skills," he said. "It can turn a third grade education into a degree from Harvard business college. Your mind will develop more money-making plans than you'll know what to do with. You'll be able to generate thousands of dollars a week, only by using your innate talents and this letter. Five credits is a bargain for that kind of power!" "Yeah, well, I'll consider it," I said, pocketing the envelope. "For now, though, I need to jack out and hit the bathroom BAD. What's your name, by the way?" "Dave," he said. "Have fun with the letter. Remember, give copies to ten of your friends! Soon, we can all profit. What's your name, soon to be billionare?" "Nostalgia Man," I said, introducing myself. "Nostalgia? As in a fan of the past?" "Yup." "Hmmm. I shall have to remember that. Well, good luck in future business endeavors!" I jacked out, his happy yellow face the last thing I saw. * I was still thumbing the envelope the next day, considering what Dave said. It didn't really make sense. Why give away such a powerful mind-altering program for five lousy credits? And how did HE know that I'd give it to people, or that they'd even pay? Probably just another UberNet crackpot scheme. UberNet didn't look kindly upon people trying to profit off the collective anarchy, but it didn't stop people from trying... then getting flamed out of existence. "That's the last of the videos," the toadie said. "I coded up a quick routine to move them all into the Library for me, took only a few minutes." "Great!" I said. "The Museum's ready to go. I figured it would take longer." "What, with a coding god like me on hand?" the kid said, puffing up his chest. "Hardly. Hey, what's in the envelope?" "Some kind of money-making program," I said. "Some guy in a silly green suit gave it to me." "Green suit?" the kid asked, intrigued. "I think I've heard of this guy. Yellow happy-face head, right?" I nodded. The kid snatched the envelope away. "I gotta check this out!" he said, ripping it open. "My bud Paul has one of these envelopes, and he says he's going to be making money by the truckload. I asked if I could have a copy, but he said something about already giving out ten." "Umm, kid, I don't know what that envelope DOES... supposedly it mucks with your brain..." The kid ignored me, engrossed in the text of the letter. His eyes stuck to the print, scanning line after line. He stood there for three minutes, unmoving as he perused the document. I started looking for a Cherry Coke to pass the time when he snapped out of it. "Whoa," he said. "Wow. That makes sense... that really makes sense! I must have been a serious chowderhead for not realizing it was possible." "What was possible?" "My idea!" he said. "I've got the ULTIMATE make money fast idea!" Make money fast? "It'll work!" he exclaimed, jumping up and down. "It'll work and it'll work GREAT. Bye, Nosty, I gotta go! I gotta go scrounge five credits and get some copies of this letter made." "Whoa! Wait! What's your idea?" I pleaded, but the kid was gone, jacked out and away. With MY letter. Still, something was very familiar about this idea the kid was talking about. I set off for the library, trying to figure out which words were giving me memory flashbacks. * Damn that kid! His stupid sorting program managed to completely screw up the Library's video index. Sure, the tapes were in their proper locations, but the labels were mixed up. It'd take a week at least to relabel them. The tapes were in alphabetical order, though, regardless of how they were labelled. I just had to poke around the letters and binary search my way to the specific topic I wanted. I had a feeling it'd be in the 'M's. One article about the Manson murders... some McDonald's Happy Meal commercials... Mandella (Nelson) is released from prison... No, no, no. I remember something about Make Money Fast, but it wasn't really wildly newsworthy on a reality level. It dealt with the net, in whatever incarnation it formed at the moment. It would probably barely get a mention. People seemed to enjoy ignoring or trivializing things they don't understand, and not too many people really grasp the importance of net. I ran through to the beginning of the 'M's, searching the 'MA's, poking through the lying labels with a stick in the dark. "--Rhodes was found brutally tortured and killed at his villa in Western Florida today," a newslady was reading. "The Coalition for Free Data claimed responsibility, calling the striking down of 'the net's biggest spammer and waster of bandwidth' the first in many acts planned against the Internet. The FBI are looking into the validity of this threat, but suspect it will not turn out to be any danger to the public. In other news--" No mention of some money-making scheme. I span the reel backwards a bit, skipping two articles in the Make Money Fast file. "--and in lighter news, users all over the Information Superhighway woke to find a chain letter written by one Dave Rhodes in their mailbox, and a copy of it posted to every 'Use Net' group. A lot of computer guys were miffed at this, and it has spawned some angry protests on the network to find Rhodes and 'make him pay for spamming us'. Good luck, guys, and have fun. At the city dog show--" Looks like they made good on that threat, I chuckled. Still, what was the problem? Sure, it's a waste of resources, but can't you just delete the mail and get on with your life? I twisted the Library viewer a few more degrees, moving on to the article I had accidentally passed over. "--net ground to a complete halt today as a group junior high school students on America On-Line proceeded to launch a program that would propagate the Make.Money.Fast file to any computer that could receive net mail," the newsman said. "Portions of the information superhighway, clogged with mail from the faulty, out of control program shut down. The students, who simply wanted to get the most money they could out of the illegal chain letter, are currently remaining anonymous until the legality of their actions is determined and a juvenile court date set." Whoa. That's why I remembered it... the Make.Money.Fast wars, just before the splitting of the net. The original burst of e-mail hit enough gullible users to produce a smaller burst, which produced another burst and shrunk at an exponential rate... ending after a few months, but causing chaos and flames beyond comprehension. This and the fabled Internet Worm were the only times in history that the Internet had to be turned off. The sheer bulk of chain letters and angry replies to chain letters did the net in. The infamous Dave Rhodes was finally tracked down and assassinated by a group of net.fanatics. So... someone's using a concept similar to and named after make.money.fast to get himself stinking rich. But even if the letter does what it says it will do, won't the users be richer than Dave... Rhodes the second? Who WAS he really? A mystery, but one that could wait. I shut down the library, vowed never to hire temp help again and jacked out. * I jacked in the next day, vowing to get those tapes sorted after I found the kid and officially fired him. Where to find him wasn't that hard; he liked to hang out at the Hackburger down the virtual street and impress girls with his stories of corporate ice and dangerous code. UberNet has always been crowded, but it seemed like a lot of them were on the street that day. Probably twice the amount that would normally be walking around... it's too easy to get pickpocketed or infected with a virus if you wander the streets all day. We never said UberNet folk were nice, just that they were cheap. "Shine your shoes?" a user asked, waving a cheaply rendered metal polisher in my face. "Just fifty credits." "Fifty?" I exclaimed. "For a little more shine on my nonexistent spats? Are you nuts?" "Hey, I'll have you know I spent a lot of time thinking about this idea," he said, waving the polisher threateningly. "I know for a fact that it'll work. If I charge more, then I only need a few takers to make money fast. It's logical." "I'd suggest lowering your price unless you want no takers. Excuse me," I said, pushing by him. My, the crowd was thick tonight. It had the street pattern, the dance of business... an annoyingly old metaphor, but metaphors circle around just as fast as cultures. Sickly guitar floated out of the crowd, chords that had the same waveform of a cat stapled to a moving garage door. Someone had coded a guitar VERY BADLY and was cheerfully sharing the results with Uber at large. So, being the spunky can-do UberNet type I am, I walk over to the offending musician, grab his guitar and break it over my knee. (It may be rude, but it's for public safety.) "HEY!" the musician exclaimed. "I spent all of last night coding that guitar! It was going to be my ticket to millionareland!" "I think the phrase is, how do you get into Radio City Music Hall?" I asked, handing the broken guitar back. "Huh?" "Practice!" "Huh?" "Whatever. Jokes don't repeat as well. Point is : You suck. How were you planning on making money off that?" "Simple!" he said. "If I can play badly enough and look sad enough, bystanders will take pity and give me cash. It's a pathos appeal, guaranteed to make me money fast. Kinda sneaky, huh? I'm real proud of it." "Did you read a letter, perchance?" I asked, seeing the obvious pattern. "Yup. Read it, sent the man in green five creds and copied it off for my friends. We're all gonna be RICH. Steve's got a lemonade stand one block over and Jill is prostituting artificial sheep." "SHEEP?" "She says it'll work," the guitarist shrugged. "Makes sense, since she read the letter too. It's good stuff. Dave is a swell person to share his business skill with us." "About how many people do you reckon have read that letter by now?" I asked. "I dunno. A lot. See the crowd? They're all trying to make some money. Since they're out here, they can be potential customers for me, logically. It's a great setup." "Great, except that if they need money themselves then they won't be paying YOU any." "Not very logical," he snorted. "Do you want a copy of the letter? It's great, clears up life's problems like lifting a fog. Sounds like you could use it. Just so happens I have my tenth copy ready to go..." "No thanks," I said. "Friend, you can't pass up an opportunity like this!" he said. "Whatever you're doing now is burger flipping compared to the cash you could be making!" "How much have YOU made?" "Nothing." "Doesn't sound like you're making money fast, then," I scowled. "Fast is a relative term. The letter says that. Here, have the envelope. I've got a guitar to reprogram," he said, passing me the letter and wandering into the crowd. I considered ripping up the stupid letter. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice behind me said. "It'll make your dreams come true." I span around, face to face with Mr. Rhodes. "You," I growled. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing to UberNet. I saw the news articles from the nineties, the ones where a letter like yours ground the net to a halt. How much profit have you made off this scheme so far?" "Enough," Dave said. "Just enough to survive. I want to help people, really." "If this letter spreads as fast as it is, UberNet's gonna be overflowing with junior con artists." "Touche! They're all happy businessmen, ready to exploit any opportunity that arises. For instance, did you hear that Yttia Online is currently leasing out space on VOSNet to aspiring businessmen?" "Yeah, I heard. I couldn't afford it for my Museum." "That's BEFORE the price drop!" Dave exclaimed, grin extending beyond Silly proportions. "It's nearly free now. Ready for the claiming. Comes with a trial subscription to Yttia Online, VOSNet's premiere information service. Good data at good prices. I suggested that to them." "I get it," I said. "You come here, mung up the minds of everybody on Uber, and get them to exodus over to VOSNet's Yttia Online. I'll admit, it's one of the more clever schemes to destroy UberNet. The corps have outdone themselves. Don't think it'll work, though." "And why not?" "History repeats itself. You'll be dead in a ditch before sunrise." "Unlikely," Dave said. "The past is for fools like you who seem to want to cling to it. The future is for people like me that are always looking for new ways to succeed. You'll soon realize that. Lenny? Steve?" "Yes, Dave?" the two hulking users chimed in, fading out of the crowd. "Please knock out Nostalgia Man," Dave said, pointing to me. Lenny blinked. "Ummm... who's Nostalgia Man?" "Him!" Dave said, pointing to me. "Why should I be hitting him?" "Who's the one in the green suit?" Dave demanded to know, pulling on his tie. "I'm Dave, the green man who is going to make you money. Dave wants N.M. out of the way for the moment. Hit him." "Okay," Lenny said, pounding me. * The warning sirens lit up and my consciousness was pulled backwards. I laughed inwardly. Biotech is the ONLY thing that has not repeated yet, since nothing like it has been seen before. I happen to have quite a bit of biotech in me... it's how I collected my archives for the Library, through mind-fixes. Specifically, fixes that deal in information retrieval, storage and security. I'm immortal on VOSNet. My brain goes into danger money when you try to do anything to it (one reason why I didn't bother reading the letter). So, I may pass out, but I'm still alive. Not even heavy ice can crack the goods of the Dirty Dozen. If this Rhodes guy had wanted me dead, he did a lousy job of it. Give my brain five minutes to recover, and I'll be back in UberNet with a big smile on my face. I float in the red zone of protect mode, happy and bored, waiting for protect to go offline. KA-BLAM! goes the cheap cartoon sound effect of someone forcibly jacking me out of the net. My mind is pulled straight through the red zone wall, and back to its proper place behind my eyes. There are Lenny and Steve, not in the net, but in my living room, one of them holding the wire of my deck and the other holding me in my chair. Okay, this is not good. In VR, I may be a god, but in reality I'm just this shrimpy tourist with a golden oldies fetish. Danger levels are suddenly very, very real. "Let go of him, Steve," Dave said, from somewhere behind me. "You two go wait outside the door. I'd like to have some words with the Nostalgia Man." "Yes, Dave," Steven nodded, releasing his meaty grip and making a beeline for the door. The door shut securely, and I heard the dull WHUMPH of Lenny and Steve leaning against it from the other side. Dave Rhodes circled around to the front of my chair. He didn't look that different. Green suit, tacky beyond comprehension. The head wasn't a yellow happy face, but it might as well have been... it was the suave, aryan look that spoke of confidence, warmth and security. Politicians would kill for that face. Crooks would do their best to imitate it for a jury. "I did a little research myself," Dave grinned, his perpetual smile as wide as the one on Uber. "Nostalgia Man, AKA N.M., aka Nosty. Real name, Raymond Yankovic. Biotech implants give him the ability to absorb information, store and protect it. Has a suction-cup mental jack embedded in his left palm, which can be used to tap into the minds of others for information retrieval. Plus, he's the only person who could have heard of the make.money.fast file." "So you figured you'd just kill me in reality, where I couldn't fight back, right?" I said. "Not so!" Dave said. "Raymond... may I call you that?" "No." "Ray, I need people like you. Lenny and Steve make great influencers, but they're sheep, just like the rest of my proud hopefuls. They need strong leaders. I've gotten more people than I had ever expected, my letter propagating faster than the plague. Now, I could take what I have and apply the counteragent to the rest, but the ideal situation would be to let the letter continue draining UberNet until nobody's left there. Maximizes my profit at a minimal loss." "What does this have to do with me?" I asked. "Simple. I need people who can't read the letter. People who don't have squabbles with logic. People to manage, maintain and track the new immigrants to Yttia Online. You have the ability to store and retrieve information like that, and the skills to keep track of it all. We'd have to expunge your archives of those silly relics first to make room, however." Dave took my deck wire, and fastened it to my forehead. "I'm sure we can work by your little mind-lock together and get you on the right path. Let's discuss it." Before I could protest, Dave had my deck on and I was in the Museum proper. Dave formed in front of me, happy face head and all. Knowing how well this guy could warp minds over the network, I didn't want to take my chances battling him at a direct mental level unless I had to. But how could I elude him, keep my archives, and get away with my life intact? "You know, now what we're here," I said, "It gives me an idea." "I always enjoy good ideas. What is it?" "This," I said, pulling out the guitarist's letter number ten and ripping it open. I shoved the print in Dave's face, sliding over to keep his head aimed at it. "Have a taste of your own medicine, Mary Poppins," I chuckled. "A few paragraphs of this and you'll be a babbling idiot like the rest of the people you've infected." "This is good stuff," he said. "I should know. I've read it before." "What?" I asked, letter slipping from surprised fingers. "Of course! How do you think I came up with the letter idea? It's a great way to make money fast, I'm sure of it. It's logical and will work." I gaped. How dare this guy go off and infect himself with his own disease, thus preventing the hero from taking the typical route of poetic justice?! History had to repeat itself, dammit! That's how it works! "You probably think of me as some scheming, underhanded fellow," Dave said. "Not so. I don't work for Yttia Online. Well, perhaps according to them I do, but I personally WANT Yttia Online for my own purposes. I want to help people get there, so I can overthrow it, and provide business opportunities for all. The net has so much commercial potential, but these backwards UberNet types reject the net's true purpose! I just set them on the right path, bring them together, and make profit for all. To do this fast, which was promised, I need your help." Dave placed his palm on my forehead. Tiny intrusion programs fire, poking dangerously close to my red zone protector. "Hold still, please. I'm doing this for your own good," Dave said. How could he get by my security package? It was top-notch biotech! Already I could feel the nanites pushing past layer after layer, burrowing down to my precious mental archives. Alright... if we want to find out HOW, we ask the source. Not verbally, however. I press my palm to Dave's stupid yellow head, and ask his mind DIRECTLY. The torrent of information was overpowering. Dave didn't lead a very closed life, everything he ever wanted out in the open and for sale. Programs, schemes, future plans, everything laid out in indexed order. A tidy mind is a good mind. Good for those of us who specialize in thought-eating, that is. Dave's probes are like a blind child swinging a stick at a pinata compared to mine. Normally I ask for permission first to scan someone's brain, but hey; Dave didn't ask ME if he could poke into my brain, why should I return the favor? I ate it all, sucking copies of Dave's plots and programs into my own databanks. Then, I pushed him away, and jacked out. Dave was there, jacked into my computer and extremely surprised. I grabbed the deck off the table and smashed it across his jaw, spinning his silly grin around and sending it crashing to my carpet. It was so obvious, I thought, reviewing over Dave's stolen thoughts. You'd have to have impaired logic not to see the hole in your plan. I started to pull Dave's pants down. * "Is everything okay in here, Dave?" Steve asked, peeking in the door. "I know you told us to stay put, but we heard this noise and were worried that you might have been hurt..." "I'm fine," I said. "Here. I have new orders for you two. Take this disk and go load it into your computers. You'll find an envelope on it. It's a new money-maker, TWICE as fast!" Steve and Lenny gaped. "You mean... more money? Faster money?" "Faster than a Yugo on acid," I said. "Read it, and give copies to ten of your best friends. Plus, this letter's FREE! You've got nothing to lose!" Lenny and Steve practically climbed over each other to grab the disk. "We'll do it, Dave! Anything for the man in the green suit. We'll do it right away!" "Good for you two. I'll deal with N.M. here," I said, nudging Dave's slumbering, tourist-garbed form with my toe. "Have fun! Share the information." Lenny and Steve ran for the door, trying to squeeze through it simultaneously. That was that. I straightened my tie. Dave was probably smoking something when he wrote the code of the letter. Sure, his followers had to obey his command, but only because of his tailor... they'd follow anybody in that green suit. It must have seemed logical at the time, in a simplistic sort of way. The man in the green suit makes the rules. He also made the mistake of developing a counter agent. Why he did this and left it out in the open of his mind, I have no idea... maybe some of his sanity leaked back in and realized what it was doing. Maybe it was part of some demented logic game. The circle was complete. The net faced the chain letter from hell and defeated it again. Not by some terrorist swinging in on a rope to assassinate its maker, though. Oh well. My window shattered, as a terrorist swung in on a rope, quickly pulling out a blaster and placing it below my brainstem. "This is the END of you, Rhodes," the man spat. "No! Him! Him!" I said, trying to wiggle away. "I just changed clothes with him!" "Don't think you can weasel out of THIS. You'll pay for what you did to the last vestige of freedom on my net!" I worked a hand free (my left one) and palmed the terrorist's forehead, quickly dumping memories of the last few minutes into his head. He stumbled backwards, and I darted for cover. "Uhh... argh. My head," he groaned, groping at his skull. "Sorry for the forced injection," I apologized, "But I wanted to live." The man nodded, realization of what just occurred slowly hitting him, like a bat in slow motion. "I'm too late?" I nodded. "I knew this was a silly idea," the man said, grumbling under his ski mask. "I just got fed up with what I was seeing and thought I should do something about it..." "It's okay. You ought to take Dave with you anyway, so the media picture is complete. I'll fake a story to the police," I said. "We need to ensure that the script follows just as it did last time, or else make.money.fast might happen again." The man nodded, pulling the stunned Rhodes up to his feet. "Alright. Consider it done. When I'm done with him, he'll WISH I had killed him." "Who are you, by the way, so I can let the media know?" I asked. "William," he replied, before leaping out the window with the chain letter master in tow. I ran to the window to watch the two of them hit the pavement, but they were gone. Vanished. * The anti-letter spread just as quickly as the original, and UberNet resumed normal illegal activity a few days later, with a slight headache and a desire to forget the events of the past few days. After the much embellished news story I told the media, make.money.fast was declared illegal on UberNet and VOSNet. Occasionally you'd see some poor guy trying to restart it, dreaming of fortunes and riches, but they didn't last very long. Hopefully they'd try it on VOSNet, where you can just have your access revoked... UberNet types revoke other things. Rumors of this mysterious vigilante who had disposed of Rhodes for me flew, spawned on the news story. Rumors spread just as fast as little letters, but that's normal and in keeping with the way of things. History repeats itself, just like it should, and life goes on for all. Nobody gets rich quick, though.