The Wild West in Cyberspace. 5,000 A computer nerd goes adventuring. (standard:adventure, 4969 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 25 2020	Views/Reads: 1215/871	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Typing in a final string of data from the last form in his “in” basket, Olaf Smith leaned back in his chair – finished. He was at a workstation on MacMS69, a large computer serving the Western Hemisphere of Earth.

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it. No need for breakfast, since he had been told it would be pumped 
out later if he did eat -- part of the in-processing procedure. 

Combing sparse white hair, he dropped false teeth into a bag. They
weren't needed but he hated to part with them in case he would come 
back. Of course, he realized, that event was highly unlikely. 

After bagging the teeth, he looked down at them, then into a mirror. He
saw an old man, back bent from disease, along with the yellow liver 
spots that came with it -- toothless and with sagging jowls. 

"Damn it," Olaf muttered in a loud voice, loud for him, and threw the
bag into a disposal chute, "I'm ... not ... going to back out. Take the 
damned teeth." 

*** 

At least the attendant was familiar. He knew her slightly from the
cafeteria. 

"Take it easy, Olaf," she told him, smiling professionaly. "It's not so
bad in there. We'll have you fixed up in no time." 

"I don't see you going in." 

"As soon as I build up enough Ccredits, I will be. We don't earn your
fantastic salary. Now stand still while I run a Measurometer over you. 
We have to give you a comfortable fit, you know? Otherwise your 
physical body may develop bed-rashes." 

Curious enough to temporarily forget his plight, he saw her feed vital
measurements off a strip of cellulose into a slot in a coffin-like 
object. As he watched, the inside seemed to flow into another 
configuration, one to better fit his unique body patterns. 

Two large male attendants helped the woman fit him inside. Cold metal
contacts were placed at strategic points on his body. He felt silly, 
looking up at several concerned faces. 

Then the lid was finally closed, slowly, so as not to further alarm him.
There was a light inside, letting him see a pink-quilted pattern on the 
inside of the lid. The sight softened as a greenish gas flowed from 
hidden inlets. Within seconds, Olaf felt himself relax, despite almost 
frantic efforts to stay alert. Seconds later, he slipped into a very 
deep sleep. 

*** 

Olaf opened his eyes to find himself standing on an open platform. He
wasn't alone. Others were moving around him, some sitting on bare 
plastic benches. 

Standing! Yes, he was standing. For the first time in ten years. Not
only that but without effort. Feeling himself dressed, he looked down 
at a strong young body. He was both alert and full of unaccustomed 
energy. Olaf reached a hand up to wipe sweat off a smooth face. Feeling 
something in his eye, he brushed back a thick shock of dark hair. 
Further exploration found it continued, covering his entire head. He 
was, once again, a young man. So, he thought, this is what he'd spent a 
lifetime fearing ... life in cyberspace itself. 

Seeing mirrors spotted around the platform, Olaf rushed over to one. He
couldn't recognize the stranger looking back at him. That man was a 
muscular creature with a strong jaw. Olaf had been a wimp of a man at 
that age. He'd grown a beard just to hide a weak jaw. 

He looked around. There were signs indicating orientation classes,
restrooms, and food outlets. A row of routers (transporters) stood 
along one side, people lined up to go to specific locations. One was 
labeled "Real World" for the few returning to Earth. A newsstand 
indicated anchor directories were for sale, giving specific locations 
and their coordinates. 

On another side of the large platform, a row of autoprobe taxis stood
waiting for passengers, along with several private and government 
models. One expensive-looking vehicle stood waiting. It was conspicuous 
with its light-blue coloring and seemed solider than most of the 
others. Government vehicles were built with real programming, rather 
than imagination. 

"Olaf." He heard a familiar voice in his head. It was MacMS69. "Olaf,"
the voice continued, "I pulled some strings. That autoprobe, the blue 
one, is yours. I took the liberty of filling it with supplies, as a 
last gift to you." 

"Why, thanks, Mac. I don't know what to say." 

"You just enjoy yourself, old friend. And remember, I'll be watching
over you." 

"Please. I appreciate it, Mac, but I really want to die in here while
doing something noteworthy with my life." 

"It's your choice, Olaf, not mine. I'll miss you. I'll try to honor your
choice but no guarantees." 

Olaf stepped, somewhat gingerly, into the autoprobe. He saw it was an
expensive government model, a three-seater made of hard programming. 
Sensing his entrance, the door closed. As soon as he sat, midway down 
the luxurious cabin, he was thrown back in his seat by the accelerating 
vehicle. 

"Where to, Mr. Smith?" the vehicle asked after leaving the station
behind. "I'm a hard- programmed model XS732 assigned to your use as 
long as needed. If undecided, there is an anchormap under your seat." 

Olaf reached under his feet, bringing out a thick volume. There must be
a million addresses to choose from, he thought, balancing the book on 
his knees. At least it was indexed. 

It was hard to read, since the printing constantly changed as anchors
were added and deleted in real cybertime. He'd no sooner start to read 
a description, than it would slide up or down on the page as the list 
was updated. Oh, he noticed. There was a button at the top, labeled 
"Stop Scroll." After pressing it, the book was easier to peruse. 

Since he wanted excitement and to be rough and tough in his new life,
Olaf looked for the most adventurous location possible. One choice in 
that category was a town named "Deadwood" based on the Old West in what 
used to be the United States. 

He gave the coordinates to his vehicle and settled down to a three-hour
ride. 

Meanwhile, he read another manual, also found under the seat. It was
called the "Internet Orientation Guide" and gave instructions on how to 
use his imagination to create and control objects, as well as giving 
rules and regulations on behavior and etiquette within the Internet. 
That reading, and a little practice, easily took up the time. Of 
course, he hadn't learned everything yet. It takes more than a few 
hours to learn the intricacies of an entirely new world. 

*** 

The XS732 parked on a grassy field, a row of yellowish lights visible in
the distance. His wasn't the only autoprobe there. A few others were 
staggered across a grassy purple prairie. 

He'd spent at least two hours making many aborted attempts at imagining
the intricacies of a wardrobe, Olaf -- finally dressed in 
flashily-studed western attire as remembered from old movies -- walked, 
spurs jingling, across the field. He could dimly see a town comprised 
of mostly ramshackle buildings with a few two-story wooden structures. 
What drew him in, though, were the sights and sounds from several of 
the buildings. 

A row of horses, of every color and size imaginable, stood in front of
the noisy structures. The animals didn't look like in the movies. One 
of them stood fifteen-feet tall and was a bright orange. It had a 
built-in cab on its back and turned its head to study him with a 
curious stare. Another large beast was made entirely of armored metal, 
with the barrels of two machine guns built into its snout, one on each 
side of a narrow head as it grinned at him. “Hi, cowboy. See you're new 
here, neighhhh,” it said with a horselaugh. 

Up close, the building did resemble a saloon of that period, complete
with swinging doors. Inside, the atmosphere also resembled those old 
western movies. There was a bar on one side of the room and round 
tables filled with mostly men dressed in western garb. A fat woman 
danced on a small stage while honky-tonk piano music came from, 
apparently, nowhere. 

Olaf noticed a difference in the customers. Some were dressed like him
and were also as large, wearing flashy clothing. Others were normal 
looking, wearing dull-looking well-worn buckskin. The latter sat by 
themselves in a corner of the room, seeming to avoid the flashy 
customers. 

He walked, actually swaggered, up to the bar. 

"Gimme a shot of redeye," Olaf ordered in as gruff a voice as his new
body could manage and glared around the room, getting many such looks 
in return. It seemed like a tough crowd. 

"Coming right up, sir," the bartender said, with a grin. "You want that
in a dirty glass?" 

"Uh ... I suppose so." 

Getting his drink and paying an exorbitant price, Olaf turned, leaning a
buckskin-clad elbow against the bar to observe the action. 

He didn't have to watch for long. One big guy shot up from a chair
across the room, drawing a revolver to point it at another large man. 
Before he could pull the trigger, the gunman was frozen in place. Olaf 
saw the bartender pointing some sort of weapon at the men. Two others, 
also wearing aprons, picked the inert gunman up and carried him 
outside. 

"No killing in here and that includes you, tenderfoot," the bartender
told Olaf, putting the freezegun back under the counter. 

"Excuse me, sir," Olaf said, reverting to his normal attitude to ask.
"How did you know I was a tenderfoot?" 

"All you new guys come in like that. 'John Wayneing' we call it. The
real residents are the others, coming in from a hard day's work with 
dirty clothes and looking like real cowboys. Most of them own or work 
on ranches in the area. All they want is a peaceful drink or two before 
going home." 

Olaf felt shame at what he'd been attempting, to be rough and tough in a
hardworking atmosphere. The next time he perused the room, it was with 
a different gaze. 

*** 

Not being used to drinking, he woke with a hangover. The new Olaf had
slept fully dressed. The lower part of the two rear seats he'd been 
sleeping on was torn from the sharp points of his spurs. After taking 
time to gain enough equilibrium to stand, he staggered to the 
still-open door of his autoprobe. 

A man dressed in a suit was coming toward his vehicle. Glancing past the
approaching visitor, Olaf saw the old-time bars were gone. He forced 
himself to reflect and, yes, that was the right direction. Instead, 
several small shacks stood on those lots. 

Olaf stepped down the three steps to the ground, then leaned on the
vehicle. Off on his right, on a formerly empty part of the parking lot, 
he could see a new building. A sign painted on the front said simply, 
"Glub." 

"Sally never did learn to spell, stranger," the visitor told him, coming
up to Olaf. "It should read Grub, old west talk for breakfast. You 
wanna join me? You owe me for the parking space. I own the anchor and 
most of the property here." 

Olaf shrugged, forced a smile and went along. He didn't feel much like
eating, though. 

"I saw you looking at the Strip, as we call the bars. The owners find it
easier to simply imagine a new building every evening than to bother 
cleaning from the night before. Besides, they find a lot of goodies 
that way. Visitors drop stuff while drinking. With the building gone, 
they find wallets, rings, watches and other valuable items." 

"Why the smaller buildings, then?" 

"You better read your Internet manual, pardner. Some things, though
imagined by someone else, have to be bought. Good beer and whiskey are 
among them. Not just anyone can imagine the intricate process of making 
alcoholic drinks. It takes an expert, someone with experience in real 
life. They imagine it, step by step, into existence then sell to 
others. The Internet is great for enhancing imagination to reality but 
does not provide experience or no-how." 

The restaurant was basic, with a half-dozen small tables. Each could
hold four customers comfortably. Since the place was almost empty, most 
tourists still sleeping it off, Olaf and Mr. Mathers sat at a table 
with only one other occupant. It was a pretty blond girl. 

"You owe me ten Ccredits a day for parking," Mr. Mathers told him. They
touched Ccredit cards, while Olaf pictured fifty of them in his mind. A 
number fifty showed on the other card and the transaction was 
concluded. 

The breakfast was simple and filling. 

"What I did," Mr. Mathers told him, "was save up to buy an anchor.
Always having liked the old west, I've lived in several of these 
towns." He shrugged. "I don't have enough imagination to make my own. 
But with an anchor and by listing it in the Internet Directory, I lure 
tourists in. I rent out land around the anchor to others, mostly 
imaginary ranchers. I guess that makes me the mayor. See? That way I 
have my own world to run, even without imagination. I'm mayor, judge, 
sheriff and chief landowner." 

Although listening to him, Olaf was really studying their companion. She
was obviously pretending to ignore them, looking out the window and 
everywhere but at the two. Finally, to Olaf's relief, Mr. Mathers 
finished and went to another table to talk to some cowboys. 

"Excuse me, ma'am," Olaf introduced himself to the lady. "My name's Olaf
Smith and I'm new here. Have you been here long? Maybe you can show me 
around town?" 

She looked over at him, shyly, eyes giving a neutral expression as
though considering the offer. 

"I'm new here too," she told him, "but maybe we could learn together?" 

"We can use my autoprobe?" 

"This is the old west. Maybe we should try a land wagon?" she asked. 

Neither one having seen an actual horse-drawn carriage, they rented one
from Mr. Mathers. He even conjured up a pair of horses for them. 

Olaf found her name was Trina and that she'd recently finished a stint
in school, although she avoided telling him about her studies. After 
breakfast, while Mr. Mathers was getting things together for them, he 
showed her his autoprobe. 

Trina was interested in the vehicle. 

"I've never seen one this fancy," she told Olaf while he was searching
through his gear for suitable western clothing. Olaf was lucky, finding 
a plaid shirt and levi pants, along with headgear that could pass as a 
cowboy hat. There was no gunbelt with six-shooters but he found one 
with an old-fashioned military pellet-shooting pistol. Since he had no 
idea on how to make a six-shooter, which would probably explode if he 
tried to shoot it, that was close enough. Who knew, there might be 
rattlesnakes on the trail? he thought. 

Dressing behind stacked crates in the back, he returned to see Trina
already clothed in a gingham dress and bonnet she had conjured up. 
Obviously, she had imagination. 

"Here's your wagon. Have a good time." Mr. Mathers had arrived. "The
horses know the route and can speak. If you need anything, ask them. 
Their names are Juke and Jake," he told Olaf, "I've had them for 
years." 

Trina climbed onto a slab-seat behind the horses while Olaf had to be
helped up by Mr. Mathers. The leather reins were unfamiliar in his 
hands. 

"Oh, and I packed you a lunch. It's in the back along with a few other
things you might need, like a jug of ice water. Don't worry about 
feeding the beasts. They ate already." 

"What the hell you mean, 'don't feed the beasts,' you bastard," one of
the horses said after swinging its shaggy head around. "You damned well 
better feed us. It's in the union rules. Section 34, clause 12." 

"Shut up, Juke. You know you don't belong to no union," Mathers told
him. "I'm sure you'll get plenty of grass." 

"Grass? Without ketchup?" Jake complained. 

"I put extra ketchup in the lunch-box," Mathers told Jake. "Now stop
complaining. I could have you hauling a full load, you know. Or rent 
you out to plow a field?" 

"That would be the day, Mathers," Jake replied, shaking his head at the
thought. 

Mr. Mathers leaned closer to Olaf and Trina. 

"They complain a lot but are good horses. Just make certain YOU give the
orders. If you let them, they'll find a tree and sleep. You have to be 
decisive with them," he whispered. "Don't let them have their own way." 


The horses neighed and took off at a trot. The first problem came when
they reached the end of the short main street. Jake, hitched on the 
left, wanted to go right, while Juke started left, both of them falling 
in a tangle of limbs, jerking the wagon to a stop. 

"Lookout Mountain," said Jake. 

"No. Better grass at Summit's Point," said Juke. 

"Stop it, right now," Trina ordered, leaning down to glare at them. "We
want Lookout Mountain." 

"See, Ya, ya, ya," Jake chided his teammate. 

"Let's go." Olaf tried to be forceful. 

The two horses, Jake gloating and Juke disappointed, got to their feet
and started off, mumbling at each other until Trina ordered them to 
shut up. 

Right after leaving town, the green grass turned purple, the normal
Internet color. Olaf figured the green stuff had been imagined to make 
the town look more Earth-like. A little farther, the trail became 
narrower until it was mostly a cleared space with wagon tracks worn 
into it. Internet shrubbery and trees appeared, Olaf becoming aware for 
the first time that there hadn't been any of either in Deadwood. 

They traveled for hours, gradually rising in elevation; a fact known
only by looking behind them. The horses easily pulled the light wagon 
with only two passengers. After a few bumps in the road, the two humans 
tended to sit closer together, making it easier to grab each other to 
hang on. Before long, they simply sat tightly connected, arms around 
each other -- which didn't bother Olaf in the slightest. 

Eventually, the weather becoming warmer, they crested a final rise,
seeing nothing but open space ahead of them. Such elevations were 
relatively rare in Cyberspace, so it took even Trina by surprise. The 
horses stopped under a small group of trees to take advantage of the 
shade. Although there was, of course, no sun in Cyberspace, the sky did 
get bright and darken at a regular rate. In the heat, any shade was 
welcome. 

"Time to eat. Unhitch us," Jake called back, "and break out the
ketchup." 

"Don't be silly. These are tenderfeet. We gotta do it ourselves," Juke
told his companion, reaching up with his teeth to unhook the leather 
harness. 

Juke moved over a space and started to nibble on purple grass, while
Jake stood, head close to Olaf. 

"Well?" Jake demanded. 

"The ketchup?" Trina guessed, reaching back to the food. Along with a
basket and two thermoses, she found a covered bucket of the red sauce. 
Jake grabbed it in his teeth and, without even a "thank you," found a 
nearby patch of grass, shaking the bucket to liberally sprinkle purple 
grass with red liquid. 

There was both a checkered tablecloth and another bundle in the back,
Trina found. The second was a small self-inflating tent. She wondered 
what that was for? Maybe if it rained, she decided. What confused her 
was that while she was checking it out, both horses chose to snicker. 

Trina spread the cloth while Olaf retrieved and laid out food. They
dined on fried chicken, potato salad and long thin loaves of French 
bread, courtesy of the cook at the "Glub" joint, who had an exceptional 
imagination when it came to food. 

"What's in the thermoses?" Trina asked. Going over to the ketchup
bucket, she tentatively tasted it and brought the remains back for her 
chicken, receiving an angry snicker from Jake. 

"Ice water in one and ... wine in the second," Olaf told her. There were
even a couple of drinking glasses in the basket. 

The two sat, looking out at endless prairie as seen from Lookout Point
while eating and sipping wine. It was very romantic, despite loudly 
arguing horses in the bushes. So romantic that the scene, food and 
wine, brought them closer together. Finally, they huddled, side by side 
and head to head while watching shadows lengthen in the distance. 

"What did you say you studied?" Olaf asked, for the third time. 

"Isn't this nice," Trina answered, avoiding the question for the third
time. "Almost like on Earth itself." She nuzzled his neck. Changing the 
subject, she asked, "Do you think we might see what that tent's like? 
Just out of curiosity. I've never really been in one like that before?" 


Olaf brought the tent out and the two studied it. Neither could figure
out how to open it, turning the thing around, pulling, tugging and even 
punching the bundle. 

Finally, with a groan, Juke rose, came over and kicked it once, stepping
back as the thing inflated. He went back to his grass. 

The two, by then tipsy from wine, crawled inside to check it out. Trina
brought the thermos of wine with her. 

"Comfy. Feel this soft flooring," she said, bouncing on a built-in air
mattress. It was close inside, with both of them in there. Also, 
without a breeze, warmer than outside. Bouncing harder, Trina hit her 
head on the roof and bounced back, landing in Olaf's lap, giggling. 
"Whee, this is fun." 

"Warm though," Olaf said, wiping his brow. 

"That's because we're dressed. It's not made for all these clothes. She
reached down to draw the hem of her dress over both of them, causing 
more giggling and laughing as they struggled free of it. 

Of course, Olaf had to follow suit. It wouldn't be right for her to be
half-naked while he was fully clothed. Kicking clothing aside, they lay 
together, limbs entwined in the tight, dimly lit, confines. 

"You have to help me," Trina whispered in his ear. "I've never done it
before." 

"I will, Trina, darling. Don't worry, this is one thing I am experienced
in." 

"I'd bet a big handsome guy like would be," she kidded Olaf, backing up
a little and tensing her muscles. "You just let me know if I'm doing 
anything wrong, please." 

Like a flash, she was all over him, grasping, kicking and twisting. Her
tongue seemed to be going through his mouth and out his nostrils, 
making it hard to breathe. 

Outside, watching, Jake said to Juke, "Are they fighting in there? And
they seemed to be getting on so well?" 

"Stupid idiot. That's how humans are made. I read it in a book once." 

"I thought they imagined other humans?" 

"They do, but this is the old way." 

"Oh," Jake said, "I get it." Though he didn't. 

After making violent love, the two humans fell asleep. They slept into
the equivalent of night, until wakened by a boot kicking Olaf -- 
through the tent. 

"Get your asses out here and I mean now," someone called, punctuating
the command with a bullet through the top of the fabric. 

It took only a few seconds for two frightened travelers to get outside,
leaving their clothing behind. 

Three rough-looking men were standing there, laughing at the anguish of
the two naked lovers. 

"Ey, looooky, Tom," one said, giving Olaf a swift kick in the ass as he
tumbled out. "I gets him. Ain't had no butt-boy fer a week'a Sundays." 

"Hell yeah, you get's him,'" Tom replied. "Look at what was in there
with him?" 

"Ah, I was only kidding. I want her." 

"Both of you shut up. I'm the leader. I get both of them first. I'll
start with him," the third and largest hoodlum cut in. 

Olaf jumped up onto shaky legs, glancing at the wagon. His gun was in
there -- somewhere. The two horses stood, watching. 

Jake commiserated, calling out to Olaf, "Hey, ain't our problem, buddy."


"At least bring me my gun," Olaf pleaded. 

"Uh, uh," Juke shook his mane. "You'd probably shoot me with it by
mistake." 

"Not really by mistake." Olaf spit in Juke's direction. 

"Well, in any case, I hate blood," Jake answered, turning to the
bandits. "If you nice gentlemen don't mind, we'll be on our way and 
thanks for the entertain...." 

"You hold it right there, you four-legged horse chops," the leader told
them. "We can use you -- for supper." He laughed. 

"Uh, uh," Juke repeated, kicking over the bucket. At least they wouldn't
have any ketchup for his tough hide. 

While they talked, Jake was edging over toward the wagon. He pressed his
forehead against it and shoved hard, sending it trundling down a slope 
at the bandits. 

Meanwhile, none of them were watching Trina. As the criminals jumped
aside, she kicked out, planting a bare toe in the first one's eye. 
Dropping down, she gave a karate chop to the gun-hand of the leader, 
causing him to shoot the third in the leg. 

Even before that brigand fell, Trina kicked out again, her foot meeting
the leader's crotch. 

"Oof!" he said, among other things not as polite, as he folded up to
roll on the ground. Trina then conjured up handcuffs to bind the three 
while Olaf threw them into the back of the wagon. 

"Whe -- Where did you learn that?" Olaf asked, flabbergasted. 

"That's the school I went to," she answered, wiping her bloody toes off
in ketchupie grass, "I've found most men don't like the idea that I can 
beat them up. That's why I don't advertise." 

The two horses, sensing a reward in the offing, were only too glad to
hitch themselves up for the ride back. For a change, they didn't even 
grumble and bitch as they pulled the wagon back to town. 

As the contrivance rolled down Main Street, the whole town watching.
Trina -- in reality a mental extension of MacMS69, the computer -- 
winked at Olaf. 

The End.


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