by Liam Clay
“Is that what Kalana wants?”
“No.” Sophie says angrily. “She keeps telling me her security team is the best in the world. But they aren’t you.”
“That’s nice of you to say, honey. But... have you watched my feed in the last day or so?”
“No. There’s been too much going on here. Why?”
I’m about to tell her that we lost the GTV. But she has enough to worry about already, so instead I say, “Your mother is right. She doesn’t need me to protect her.”
“Fine!” Sophie growls into my ear. “But if you won’t come home, then I need you to find out who tried to kill her. And when you do, I want you to make them pay. Can you do that for me?”
Most fathers probably don’t receive kill orders from their eight-year-old daughters. But I’m never going to be most fathers, and besides, Sophie isn’t your average kid. She’s better. The best, probably, although it’s possible I’m biased.
“I can try.”
“Thank you. And Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Although your timing seems a little suspicious.”
“My mom’s a politician. What did you expect?”
She signs off. I sit quietly in the dark, contemplating what I've just heard. It never occurred to me that Kalana could die. She has been a fixture in my life for so many years, the epitome of stability. There were times when I hated her for leaving me, and for how effectively she was able to move on with her life. But I can't imagine a world in which she no longer exists. And without Kalana, I would become Sophie's primary carer. The idea terrifies me. We're still getting to know each other, and becoming her authority figure would be too much too soon, for both of us. So I need to find out who tried to kill my ex, and stop them from doing it again if I can.
CHAPTER 13
For your consideration: the squad's second assault on Worldpool. We have each been dosed with a hit of non-weaponized nanovax. The stuff still makes me squirm, but Rajani says that it will counteract the worst of the moat's effects. All 11 of us - the seven original squad members plus Jinx, the Threshers and Rajani - are standing beside the white moat, preparing to dive in. No one has bothered to point out that if the Medgician is wrong, we're all going to die horribly in a few minutes' time. But everyone is very much aware of this fact. And now Tikal is shouting, “3, 2, 1, jump!” And it's into the nanovax we go.
My heart rate picks up the instant I touch the surface, but it drops off again just as quickly. I can actually feel the two strains of nanovax warring for control of my veins: gaining ground in my left leg only to lose it in my right arm, and vice versa. But we all make it across, and now we're sprinting through the greenhouses in a pack. Around us, the robotic menagerie goes about its work, oblivious to the crazed humans running by. My chest is hurting, but I can't tell if the cause is exertion, or a flood of weaponized vax surging through my aortic valve.
For some time, we follow a cold car that is heading for the arcology. It eventually peels off down a side lane, but Rajani does not deviate from her course. The Medgician must be incredibly fit; the others are flagging now, but she is matching me step for step.
We're almost to the pyramid. Its white flanks slope up and away from us, like a snow-covered mountain from some long-ago ice age. At the end of the road we've chosen, an ivory cube thrusts out from the structure at ground level. Set into its forward face is a circle at least five meters high. The space within is jet black; I can't tell if it's a solid surface, or a hole into which light cannot penetrate. Rajani is careening straight for it, so I hope it's the latter. My heart gives a last great thump, and then I cross the threshold. The world vanishes. No cave or crypt has ever been so dark. I stumble on for a few meters, until my foot catches on a low wall. I pitch forward into a familiar gelatinous liquid, and consciousness slips away.
.
My sense of touch is the first to return. There is heat, very near and all around me, but also a cycling draft of cool air to cut it. Weight presses against my shoulders and waist, reassuring rather than painful. My hands are held out in front of me. They are enclosed in gloves far thicker than the material of my skinsuit; but when I flex my fingers, there is no resistance whatsoever. Some type of device or motor rests against my back. It hums gently, sending vibrations up and down my spine.
And now, like a switch turning on, I can hear sound. A siren is going off somewhere - a repeating note that underpins other noises, these ones human in origin. And then from right beside me, “Hey private, are you still with us?”
I open my eyes. My body is buried in the guts of a combat mech, similar to the holographic ones Lucy employed against the council stooges. The machine is painted pitch black and gory red. My helmet is a translucent dome that extends almost to my shoulders, affording me a full range of movement. A heads up display on the curved glass shows a map of this space station. Because that, impossibly, is where I am. My mech is magnetically locked to the floor of a corridor washed with strobing red light. To my immediate left, a wide hole has been ripped out of the wall. Through it I can see star-filled vacuum, the vast arc of a planetary ring and within that, the sulfur-yellow surface of an unfamiliar sphere.
“I asked you a question, private!”
I turn my head. Standing beside me is another battle mech, this one silver and royal blue. And inside it is - Tikal. Relief fills me; whatever's going on, at least I'm not alone.
“Where are we?”
“Have you always been touched in the head, greenhorn? Or did that stint in hypersleep melt your brains? This is Valens 7, and you’re supposed to be earning back all that money the corporation spent getting you here.”
“Tikal, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Who the hell is Tikal? I am your sergeant and nothing else. Privates have to earn my name, and you're off to a piss poor start. Now let's get moving! We've got an orbital mining station to take back from those Quadcorp assholes.”
I'm starting to clue in so I give Not-Tikal a nod, hefting the railgun in my arms to show I mean business.
“Better.” She grunts. “Now let's go kill some of those creepy, four armed Quadcorp mechs. Don't frag any civilians, though. They're ours, and worth a lot more to the company than either of us.”
And now we're stomping through corridors, titanium shoulders scraping the walls each time we round a corner. The mech mimics every twitch of my muscles, making it highly intuitive to use. Then we reach the station's main concourse, and a new kind of battle opens up before me.
The enemy has occupied a mezzanine that overlooks a leisure area of multi-tiered fountains. Our soldiers are trying to take it from them. Using the landscaping as cover, they’ve advanced halfway across the concourse, but seem unable to progress further. Most of the corpses I see belong to black and red mechs like mine. But there are silver and blue ones too, as well as a few larger marines done up in gold and hunter green. Laser fire has ionized the air, giving it a burnt flavor that I can smell through my suit's filters. Then a bomb goes off a few meters away. Mech body parts fly, and the sergeant hustles us into the shelter of a monolithic fountain. It's crowded here, mostly with privates like me.
“Finally talked the greenhorn out of his tree, eh sarge?” One of them says.
“Can it, Ducky.” Not-Tikal replies. “How are we doing?”
“Not great. As things stand, the Quads have us dead to rights. Our fifth battalion is waiting behind a blast door at the back of the mezzanine, though. If someone can open it for them, we should be able to pincer these four-armed fuckers. Command is ordering an immediate charge. But if we listened every time they told us to do stupid shit like that, the war would already be over with us on the losing end.” He makes a disgusted sound. “Command. What a bunch of uncircumcised dicks.”
“Well we need to send somebody.”
Ducky points my way. “How about the greenhorn?”
“Yeah, send me.” I say, getting into the sw
ing of things now. “Command will make me a sergeant for this, and then I can order Ducky to his certain death next time out.”
The other privates laugh, and then they start to chant 'Certain Death' in high falsettos. I can't tell if they’re celebrating my impending dismemberment, or giving me a new nickname. Not-Tikal is grinning openly.
“Alright greenhorn, you're up. But when you die, try to get shot in the head, yeah? Your helmet is the cheapest part of that suit you're wearing.”
I give her the finger, and then I'm tearing out into the open, zig zagging as I go. The privates cheer me on with whoops and covering fire. I put some extra force into my strides, and now I'm bounding meters into the air. Laser fire sizzles past, but I'm riding a wave of luck and nothing comes close. Aiming for a replica of an ancient amphitheater, I run up the steps and off the top. The powered armor sends me flying, and I land on one knee amid a group of Quads. Each has a mandibled helmet, and an extra set of arms that operate independently of the other two.
A soldier reaches for me with his lower claws. I blow one off with the railgun, grab the other, and swing him into the mech next to him. They get tangled up and go down in a heap. Then I’m on the run again, dodging assailants and friendly fire, until I reach the blast doors. My fist breaks the activator when I press it; but the door opens anyway, and I find myself face-to-chest with a green and gold lieutenant.
“Not bad.” He says, and the world fractures into pixels.
.
This time I awaken to pain. It feels like four superheated coins are being pressed into the back of my neck. Lines of fire branch out from them, extending up to the base of my skull, along the twin lines of my collarbones, and halfway down my spine. I am being held inside a glass-fronted stasis tube. My arms and legs are encased in metallic sleeves packed with pink injection foam. Rubber hoses snake from them. My tube is one of twelve identical prisons, which are arrayed around the walls of a circular chamber like the hours of a clock. My squadmates inhabit all but one, which stands empty.
A stranger occupies the center of the room. Or a representation of one does. His outline is slightly blurred, and pixelated glitches flicker through his body when he moves. The image shown is that of a bearded, overweight man in his mid-forties, wearing outsized jeans and a stained T-shirt emblazoned with the words, Eat, Sleep, Code, Repeat.
“Well, well, well.” He says, turning to take us all in. “Some familiar faces and some new ones. Rajani, we love our new security system - particularly the feature that lures in flesh-sacks that we can digitally model for use as avatars. But we are less pleased to find you guiding outsiders through your own defenses.”
“I had no choice.” The Medgician explains. “These soldiers have agreed to help me infiltrate Medival and discover who now holds it.”
“I'm not sure I follow. Are you saying that someone has conquered your arcology?”
“Surely you have heard about the invasion by now? A distress call was released over the Union feed just before my people went silent.”
The Bridger doesn't seem overly troubled. “We don’t pay much attention to the physical world here. In fact, this is the first time I have manifested in the Real for years. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to meet our wayward son.” He turns to Jinx. “I am told that you took something from us after your contract here ended. Something very old. Is this true?”
The salesman blinks. “You know who I am? But... you’re the Colonizer, aren’t you?”
“Indeed. And you are right to be flattered; I do not often converse with migrant workers like yourself. But the software you stole was an artifact of some cultural significance. So we would like you to return it, please. Now.”
Jinx swallows. “I can give you the microbead I smuggled it out on. But you should know that thousands of people out in the real world have already installed the software. And it is killing them.”
“I see. And was that your intention?”
“To kill? Absolutely not. I was just trying to make some money for my village.”
“Why, were you not fairly compensated for your work here?” I don’t think the man is mocking Jinx; he seems genuinely puzzled.
“Since you ask: no, I wasn’t. Your administrators refused to pay my completion bonus because of medical treatment I received from you. Even though it was to fight an illness that I contracted on the job.”
The Bridger frowns. “That is unfortunate. In their desire to be promoted out of the Real, some of our junior members become obsessed with increasing margins. But if you did not come back to return the software, then why are you here?”
“To offer you a trade.” Tikal cuts in. “We are infected with your cultural artifact. So if you can show us how to uninstall it, we would be happy to give you some of our own technology in return.”
The fat man draws himself up. “I am single-handedly responsible for combining over sixty digital worlds into one livable environment. There is no software architect in existence to match me. What do you have that I could possibly want?”
“Real world war tech. If this place is ever attacked - and not just by a few starving villagers - a simple moat isn’t going to save you. You will need stronger deterrents for that.”
“We have nothing to fear from the Real. It is a cesspit, incapable of sustaining a culture that can harm us.”
“What about the Medival invasion?”
“Rajani is basing her claims on one aborted distress call. You will forgive me if I am unmoved.” He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “But you did perform surprisingly well on your virtual adaptability tests. So maybe there is something else you can do for me.”
“An adaptability test. Is that what you call throwing us into a simulated space battle with no explanation?”
“It is. We hardly ever get to collect performance data from subjects with zero virtual experience. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.”
“Alright, I suppose we can let that one go. What do you want our help with?”
“I need you to save a world.”
“We’re going to need more information than that.”
“And I am happy to provide it. As the Real continues to decline, more societies are making the jump to virtual. Most of them engage Worldpool to create their new homes, but some hire freelance architects instead. We have no issue with this; when those societies tire of their second-rate worlds, they inevitably decide to join our network. But sometimes, a new digital realm will implode before that can happen. The world I need you to save is one of these.”
“Why us?”
“Because newly created environments like this one are almost always based on real world physics. Many are simply digital recreations of a society’s former home. Whereas the worlds my people inhabit are so heavily altered that experiencing them would destroy your minds. But this fact also makes us less adept at handling real-type conditions.”
“So why not send some of your migrant laborers? I’m sure they would jump at the chance to experience a virtual environment.”
“Because they aren’t fighters. And the world in question is currently embroiled in a civil war.”
“I see. And if we agree to this deal, what would we have to do?”
“The world's architect has used her position to overthrow the government. It was supposed to be a society based on the concept of reincarnation, but she has altered the rules so that only those who follow her can be resurrected.” He sighs. “This is the problem with newly transitioned civilizations. Their citizens can't conceive of a world without scarcity, and so they continue to seek dominion over one another, thinking it will assure their own futures.”
I glance over at Rajani. If we agree to the Colonizer's offer, it will delay our journey to Medival. But she is resting easily in her bonds, absorbing this new data with calm acceptance. In fact, I have yet to see her display emotion of any kind.
Tikal agrees, of course. We are completely at the Colonizer's mercy, and nothing else we could offer is likely t
o sway him.
“Very good.” he says. “Now, to the details. You need to enter the virtual world, locate the Architect, and find a way to make physical contact with her, skin to skin. I will do the rest. Do not kill her or let her commit suicide, though. She will just be reincarnated on another island.”
“Island?”
“Yes. The world you are about to enter is owned by the Kogi people. They are native to a tropical archipelago that succumbed to rising seas almost two centuries ago. They survived as a nomadic seafaring people until recently, when one of their fisherwomen discovered the wreck of a massive space station at the bottom of a shallow sea. The salvaged tech and precious metals they recovered made them wealthy enough to go digital. The Kogi hired the Architect to recreate their ancestral home, which they based on oral histories passed down through the generations. But now that archipelago is in flames. I have found a way to send three people in. And based on your adaptability tests, I have chosen you, you and you.” He points a flickering finger at Amy, Peace and me.
“And what are the rest of us going to do?”
“You will remain here in stasis until your friends return. Don't worry, though. Time passes more quickly in virtual, and you will be provided with entertainment as well.”
“This wasn't part of the deal!” Tikal shouts, straining against her bonds.
“Well it is now.”
As he starts to fade, panic seizes me. “Please don't separate us!”
But the Colonizer is already gone, and now so am I.
CHAPTER 14
The island is a hundred meters long, and less than half as wide. A comma of pure white sand with a belt of palm trees in the center, it is surrounded by a pristine turquoise sea. It would be a veritable paradise if there was anything to eat or drink. At least it's not on fire. There are three other islands visible from the shores of our own, and two of them are burning.
Aside from the blackened shell of a solitary hut, our scrap of land is devoid of infrastructure. Nor have we found evidence of technology more advanced than basic tools. The three of us are decent hand-to-hand fighters; but our real expertise lay in the use of arms, so I have no idea how we will fare in this backward digital realm.