The world around him changes color to a sickly green as he cycles through settings. Thirty feet down the gently-sloping road into town, he can clearly see the pulsating, dotted lines that encompass the surrounding region and disappear into the distance. Frowning, he toggles the setting back and the world returns to the golds and reds of the surrounding countryside, awash in the hues of sunset.
As a man without an index, Taciturn is used to being on the move. His life in the Cyberside consists of moving from place to place, Locale to Locale, contract to contract. Now knowing where the Indexation Border lies, he resumes his trek down the hill.
Peremptory Indexation: Taciturn lets that bitter pill roll around on his tongue for a bit. To become permanently addressed is to give up any option of moving freely throughout the Cyberside – not an acceptable option. Add to that, indexation means having to follow someone else’s rules – and from his experience, most of the digital world’s overlords don’t keep their subjects’ well-being in the forefront of their minds. Like the other remaining Taciturns, James lives on the fringes of the Cyberside’s virtual infrastructure and completes jobs, often every bit as dodgy as they are specialized, to make ends meet. There is always – at least, so far – demand for someone who can move as freely as only the Taciturn can. Which is why he now finds himself at the edge of this quiet little town, hunting a monster.
Taciturn checks his holster one more time, sliding the pistol in and out, gauging the smoothness of the draw. Satisfied, he reaches into his chest pocket and removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shakes the box; three sticks bounce around inside it. Moving the pack to his mouth, he removes one and lights it. With a slow, deliberate inhale, Taciturn closes his eyes and lets the smoke fill his lungs. The nicotine cloud is as illusory as everything else here, but sets off a welcome bloom of warmth in his body just the same. It’s a habit from his pre-Cyberside life, but even in this full-spectrum simulation of a new existence, old habits die hard. More importantly, it’s one of the few pre-Cybercide holdovers that help him feel alive.
Cracking his back, he moves down the road. With a final deliberate step, he crosses the Indexation Border, and a quick ringing in his ears seems to harmonize with a ping from his watch. Glancing down, James sees the timepiece begin counting down from twenty-four hours. Gritting his teeth, he picks up his pace. At the bottom of the hill, he passes a weathered, splintered sign with chipped paint. It reads Welcome to Homestead. Finished with his cigarette, he sighs and flicks the butt at the sign.
Homestead’s outskirts are silent and abandoned. A lone goat chews on grass outside a derelict building. Taciturn slows his breathing and clears his mind. Each step he takes disturbs the dust at his feet – cold, pulverized, once-important files and long-overwritten routines now reduced to particulate clouds, drifting and swirling before once again coating the parched earth with layers of dead data. The myth that data lasts forever is just that, a myth. Absent the most diligent, tireless maintenance – and too often in spite of it – everything falls apart. Even deleted files leave remnants of their dissolution. Information dust is inescapable throughout the Cyberside.
And the sheer amount of dirt surrounding and permeating this town is just as wrong as it is off-putting.
By the time he reaches Main Street, the sun has nearly concluded its slow descent behind the hills, casting lunging shadows on the buildings around him. Distant music drifts towards him from somewhere ahead, down the street. A strange folkish tune, the melody abruptly morphs into a rendition of an old, pre-Cyberside band: Creedence Clearwater Revival. As usual, the System makes a more-or-less correct assessment of his musical tastes and has chosen to play ‘As Long as I Can See the Light.’ He pauses, just for a moment, to process this change. The System is the automated, supervising network that runs the Cyberside. Its decision to change the music to James’ tastes isn’t unusual, but it’s still a distraction. And distractions can get people killed.
Identifying the source of the music, Taciturn approaches a saloon. Stepping through the door of the establishment, he quickly assesses its patrons. As a venue, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s an American attempt at approximating a European beer-house. Decorated in a wildly indiscriminate fusion of Germanic heritage and other, decidedly Southwestern, cattle-centric motifs, the establishment plays up the myriad tropes of the town’s history – a history that doesn’t actually exist.
A tired-looking, homely waitress serves frosty beers to a middle-aged couple. Two young women sit at a booth near the corner, talking quietly, while a teenage boy ogles them from across the room. A weathered farmer picks without detectable enthusiasm at the plate of food in front of him.
One thing becomes apparent as soon as Taciturn crosses the threshold of the saloon. The air in the room thickens with apprehension.
Ignoring the multiple, covert glances aimed at him from all corners of the room, he takes a seat at the bar counter and signals the waitress.
“How’s it going, darling? When you get a chance, a cup of coffee would be great.”
Hesitantly, the waitress pours him a cup of hot, dark liquid.
“Thanks,” he says, scanning about for the sugar – and taking in the saloon’s other patrons.
An elderly woman knits in the corner, seemingly oblivious of any of the other customers. Three young men sit at the counter nursing beers they’re barely old enough to have ordered. A man with a large cowboy hat sits alone in a booth and pushes an empty plate across the table. These customers do little to mask their instinctual distrust of anyone and anything around them, and James can’t entirely blame them. With so much information dust coating the streets, things clearly haven’t been going well for Homestead.
The patron with the large hat stands up and approaches the bar. Taciturn takes a moment to evaluate the man moving towards him. The man’s cowboy demeanor exhibits some authority, but his attire fairly screams Caricature: Cartoonishly-proportioned hat, oversized, gaudy belt buckle, and garishly-loud boots.
Taciturn tries not to smile while stirring his coffee, even as the man pulls out the bar stool next to him.
Placing his hat intrusively close to Taciturn’s cup, the man gestures to the waitress.
“Dolores. Be a sweetheart and get me the usual.”
The cowboy turns his attention to Taciturn.
“Howdy, stranger. The name’s Oliver Day. You don’t mind if I sit here, do yah?”
Not waiting for a response, the man settles into the seat.
“I’m the sheriff ‘round here, and since we don’t get many visitors nowadays, figured I’d welcome you personally to Homestead.”
Without turning to regard him, Taciturn can nevertheless feel the lawman sizing him up. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“Don’t mention it – but say, it’s hard to make a proper introduction without knowing each other’s names, don’t you think?” The sheriff slides his hat across the counter, away from Taciturn’s cup. “Seeing as you know mine, figure it’s only fair to ask yours.”
Taciturn sips his coffee, debating if he should give his chosen name or his real one. Giving either could serve a purpose; he briefly scans the room again and knows which one he needs to start with. “It’s James.”
“James…?”
“Just James.” Finally, he turns to face the man. “I appreciate the warm welcome, Oliver. If it makes this easier, just check my registry with your Locale Program. You’ll see my profession listed as Taciturn. As such, I’m sure you can understand my desire to keep things from getting too personal.”