by Dan Davis
Milena smiled at him. “I knew what I was getting into when I was recruited, back when I was young. I really never had a life outside UNOP.”
“But you're young now,” Ram said. There was no way she was older than thirty. Maybe thirty-five at the most.
“You are attempting to flirt with me,” she said, nodding. “That’s good.”
“No, no. I really meant it.” Ram's face grew hot.
“Forget ever feeling embarrassed around me,” Milena said, looking at Ram intently. “I know everything about you. I have been watching you, watching your Avar competitions, reading your correspondence, even learning about your food and grocery deliveries and other purchases.”
“That’s pretty weird. I feel violated right now.”
“Of course you do,” Milena said. “What we are doing to you is completely unethical.”
Down in the sparring room, most of the subjects and support staff had gone, just a couple remained to clear up the towels and water bottles.
“Is that Mael guy crazy?” Ram said, lowering his voice even though there was no one around. “He’s crazy, right?”
“Mael Durand, our Subject Alpha has a severe problem with almost all people. A simple way of saying it is that he is mentally disturbed. In the past, he would have been called a homicidal maniac or a psychopath or a sociopath or another euphemism for his violent and pathological behaviors. In this Project and on this mission, we prioritize physical ability and violent creativity over stability.”
“So that’s what the Intel guy Diego was saying?” Ram said. “I’m in danger?”
“Don't listen to Diego,” Milena said. “He's afraid of physical conflict. Even vicariously, it scares him but that clashes with his profound ideological beliefs about personal freedom. Don’t let his nonchalant, casual demeanor fool you, he’s quite brilliant and quite passionate. Everyone here is and Diego is more brilliant than most. But he struggles to come to terms with the ethical consequences of what he is participating in. If anything, he’s getting worse and his advice, therefore, is inaccurate.”
“I’m relieved. I knew all the subjects couldn’t be psychotics. You wouldn’t put me in real danger.”
“Well, many of them are,” Milena said. “And you are in danger. Everything Diego said was true but you shouldn't listen to him about being submissive in the ludus. In fact, if you don't stand up for yourself then you put yourself at further risk. The subjects value physical prowess, mental fortitude. To have their respect you must display these traits. You need to stand up for yourself or you will probably be beaten, or worse.”
Ram rubbed his eyes. “Sounds like a British boarding school.”
Milena shrugged. “Not an inaccurate analogy. Any small group of physically isolated people, separated from the normalizing influence of the variables in a freer society will develop a culture of pathological brutality. Creating a group of peers, overseen by a small elite of powerful authority figures will do this. Whether it is a prison, a sports club, a school or even a whole culture, we see the same stressors expressed through a pathological need to impose hierarchies within the group. Bullying behaviors are a natural consequence of our social instincts where we need to create a tribe of individuals that have a range of interpersonal influence or kudos. However, the fact that this is natural and even predictable doesn’t make it easier on the people within those groups. So you’ll suffer and you’ll have to fight, socially and physically, for your place in the hierarchy. When that is established, the worst of them should leave you alone, more or less.”
“What if I’m no good? What if I can’t cut it?”
“I know what you are thinking,” she smiled, radiating sympathy. “You have used failure as a tool for extricating yourself from situations that you found difficult or undesirable. It is an awfully common behavior and when someone learns how effective it is, usually at a young age, they can come to rely upon it. Possibly, you discovered the tactic during your brief time at a real world school. Perhaps your tutor instructed you to perform some menial or physical task, such as sorting the color pencils or carrying chairs to another room. You were extremely bright but lacking practical experience so, in a fit of childish resistance you threw down your efforts, sabotaging yourself. When confronted by your tutor, you lacked the courage to admit that you acted out of conscious decision and instead claimed that you accidentally ruined your activity. It could be that you shed tears, overcome by the emotion and stress of the situation. I can imagine your elation when the tutor told you that she would clear it up for you and to run along back to class where you once more felt comfortable with your computer. Do you recall anything similar to that happening when you were a boy, Ram?”
“No,” Ram said, picturing the scattered computer scrolls spinning across the corridor floor at his feet and feeling the warm urine spreading down his trousers. Through the absolute, abject shame he remembered his joy at being sent away, alone, to clear himself up. It was a victory, of sorts, over the power of the tutor. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
“Of course,” Milena said. “Only rarely can a single incident form a lasting neurosis but a viable tactic, oft repeated, can become a pattern, a crutch, a place of refuge and it is something you, Rama, turn to in stressful situations.”
“Doesn't sound like something I'd do,” Ram said. “I'm always trying to win.”
“Your entire Avar career is somewhat an extension of this behavior pattern. Your supposedly heroic, all-or-nothing Avar play style? Sometimes, you see a great opportunity and you go for it. But over half the time, you destroy yourself in spectacular fashion. It is a means of avoidance. Of resistance to your own potential greatness. You kill yourself, kill your chances, before someone else can do it for you.”
“I think that's a little unfair,” Ram said. “Anyway, I'm not trying to actualize my life inside the games. I'm performing. I'm performing for my fans.”
“Your entire life is inside Avar,” Milena said, which was certainly true. “And if you're not fulfilling your potential inside the games, you're certainly not doing it inside your apartment, eating yourself to death.”
Even in his normal life, Ram felt very little, emotionally, most of the time. And since he'd woken up in the white walled prison they'd kept him sedated even further. But it was safe to say that she had hurt his feelings.
“I feel like dramatically storming out of the room right now,” Ram said.
“Thank you for proving my point,” Milena said. “Listen, I'm not trying to rile you. I am on your side. Believe it or not, it is in my professional interest to help you feel as positive and fulfilled as possible.”
“Oh yeah?” Ram raised his eyebrows. “Sweet.”
“Emotionally and intellectually fulfilled,” Milena said, smiling. “Your physical fulfillment will be the responsibility of Bediako.”
“I hope not,” Ram said. “I understand what you're saying about me always finding a way out of committing to something difficult. I think that's probably true for a lot of people. But this is crazy. I never asked for this. Is it neurotic to grab at a way out of this insane situation? I can fail to progress in the training process and then I won't have to fight.”
Milena tilted her head and ever so slightly sucked in one side of her lower lip. “I'm afraid that in this case, the only way you are permanently dropping out of the Project is if you are killed.”
“Killed.”
“This is a Project with standards, physical and ethical, that are probably unique in human experience,” Milena said, shrugging.
“No shit,” Ram said.
“We are just talking about facts here, Ram,” Milena said. “The fact is, if you do not make maximum effort in all training endeavors then you will die. Your usual, fallback position of conscious failure, of self-sabotage, will by necessity be the last time you are ever able to apply that tactic. You must get over it immediately or else you will fall at the first hurdle. And yes, I mean fall as in get snuffed out. Not gettin
g killed is up to you. Probably the best you could hope for is to be so severely injured that you can take no further part in future assignments in a supporting capacity. This is what happened to former subjects like Bediako. His replacement artificial body lets him keep up with his subjects but it won’t last long before it degrades, as would yours if you were lucky enough to get one. So, yes, your violent death may be certain. But I think we should focus on ensuring you survive the training process for as long as possible and that means believing in yourself and fighting as hard as you can. Are you willing and able to do that?”
His eyes tingled, grew hot and he blinked away the moisture leaking into them.
“Sure.”
They walked down into the sparring room in silence. Ram, the top of his head only a couple of centimeters from the ceiling, looming over her like an adult over a child. He felt like the rooms were too small for him, his height was absurd. He weighed tons. And yet his body quivered with potential energy and power and he felt an urge to run, to sprint forward to see how fast he could go, to see how high he could jump and what he could punch through or tear down. He was jittery, surging between scared of what was to come and thrilled by the knowledge of what was happening.
“The social dynamics in the ludus are brutal,” Milena said as they approached the door at the far end of the room. “Barbaric, even. But you have to remember what our objective is. We must do whatever is necessary to win the next fight. It is vitally important for the continuation of our species wherever we are and perhaps even all the species on Earth.”
“Because we’re fighting to get some of those gifts of knowledge, I get it,” Ram said.
“This will be humanity's fourth visit to the Orb,” Milena said. “Each time we leave the structure, break orbit and head back to the inner Solar System we get a little more information via a broadcast from the Orb itself. Last time, at the conclusion to Mission Three, when we translated their messages to us we understood, finally, what was at stake. What had been at stake for the previous hundred years without anyone realizing it.”
“What is at stake?”
“We told you that the Wheelhunters are not the makers of the Orb. They do not occupy it or control it. They come to the place every thirty years just to fight us.”
“Sure but where from?” Ram said, thrilled.
“We reason that it is a star system relatively near to ours, though it is not clear where they originate,” Milena said. “We reason that each time the Wheelhunters arrive at the Orb, they do so through the power of the Orb bringing them to us.”
“Yeah, wormhole right?”
“That’s what we call it but the physicists are not sure what it actually is. Clearly, due to the fact that their vessel appears while throwing off a shower of particles and radiation, we assume it is some sort of wormhole that the Orb controls. Although, perhaps it is even a space-folding ship-based drive that the Orb provided to the Wheelhunter species as a reward for winning some previous combat, with us or with another species somewhere else in the galaxy, on another one of their borders perhaps. Whatever the process, it is currently beyond our understanding, although our scientists all have their pet theories that they love to talk about, endlessly, over dinner in the mess hall.”
“Obviously, the Orb is way more advanced than us,” Ram said. “By hundreds or thousands of years. Or millions. But what about the Wheelhunters? Their ship looked kind of like ours, right?”
“We don’t know about their society but the Wheelhunters appear to be barely more advanced than us in terms of ship technology. It stands to reason that their society, like ours, puts their most advanced foot forward. So the wormhole brings the Wheelhunters to the Orb because the giant yellow aliens want something from us. Something they're willing to fight for. Remember that the Orb told us it exists to enable a kind of combat based diplomacy in the galaxy? Well, the Wheelhunters, starting with poor old Malcolm Diaz, have been winning the rights and the ability to star systems near to our own. We assume they have been given systems with habitable worlds, or ones that are potentially habitable, with which to colonize. So far, humanity has lost the rights to three star systems near to our Solar System. As far as we can tell, the victor of the next combat will determine who gets the Solar System itself.”
She watched him, waited for him to process.
“I don't understand,” Ram said. “We're already here. It's ours.”
They stopped at the closed far door, which was stenciled with the words D3 MESS. Ram could smell food.
“Think of it like a bet,” Milena said. “We're betting our solar system on the outcome of this game. Winner takes all. What will it mean if we lose? Will the Wheelhunters sterilize Earth? Take our bases and colonies? Or will they enslave us, take us away to work for them? Will they just tax us, in some way? Or will we just carry on as we are? Perhaps we'd have to share our land? We have no idea.”
“Humanity would never allow that,” Ram said. “None of those things.”
Milena nodded. “We might not have a choice. That’s why, as soon as the precise nature of the existential risk became clear at the end of Mission Three, the major corporations and nations got together to begin constructing a war fleet, space-based weapons, planetary defense systems, recruiting crew, specialized ground combat soldiers and space marines. If it comes to an invasion, we'll be as ready as we can be. But what if the Orb is here to enforce galactic law? Maybe we'll be annihilated for breaking the convention.”
“But we never signed up for this,” Ram said. “This is crazy.”
“Indeed,” Milena said. “But imagine what will happen if we win. If we can learn to beat the Wheelhunters. We will be invited to colonize distant systems. The Orb might give us wormholes that lead to those systems, as it seems to have done for the Wheelhunters. Imagine the technological leaps we will make. We'll be a part of a galactic community. Who knows where that might take us. This is a matter of life and death.”
Ram took a slow breath, filling his enormous lungs. He held it for a moment. Then breathed out as steadily as he could.
“But only if we win,” Ram said.
“Win and we win a future amongst the stars,” Milena said, nodding. “Lose and we lose everything. Come on, let's get you started. Time to do your part. They're eating dinner. The next ring section is the mess hall.”
She jerked her thumb at the D3 MESS stencil on the door.
“Ring section?”
For the first time since Ram had met her, she seemed a little nervous. “This isn't a base under the earth. Not in Antarctica or Siberia or the Himalayas.”
“Don't tell me. I already figured it out.”
“We are on a ship called the UNOPS Victory. A ship heading out to the Orb Station. We have a long way to go yet but we are closing rapidly on our destination.”
“I knew it,” Ram said, shaking his head. “A spaceship? It must be enormous. This is way bigger than anything I've even heard about. This must be bigger than the Mars colony ships.”
“The UNOPS Victory is easily the biggest vessel to travel to the outer system. They're completing bigger ships back in Earth orbit now, ready for defending the planet should it come to an invasion but they don’t have to propel themselves half the width of the solar system. And there are armed ships with fighter fleets and manned weapons platforms being sent to Mars and out to Saturn. But we are leading the way. I can’t tell you how many exactly but we have well over a hundred people on board.”
“UNOPS?” Ram said. “People keep saying that. It’s United Nations…?”
“United Nations Orb Project Spaceship,” Milena said. “You’ll hear people here refer to the Project as a whole as UNOP, using both words interchangeably. But we all call our beautiful ship the Victory.”
Ram looked around the room with new eyes, shaking his head. “So many of my friends told me this was happening. I never believed them. How is it possible? It feels like we’re on Earth.”
He banged his hand on the black cer
amic tile of the wall. It was cool to the touch.
Ram smelled hot savory food wafting out of the room beyond. He felt a pang, not of hunger, exactly, but of the urge to stuff himself senseless. How long had it been since he had eaten? Hours, certainly.
“The apparent gravity is provided by rotating the ship.” Milena took out her screen and unfolded it. “Here's an image of the Victory from one of our drone fleet. Our shielding masks the internal design somewhat but the Victory is constructed of six adjacent rings around a central core. Each ring has six sections. Each section is a tube, like a rocket body, joined end to end. Each ring of six is joined to the one next to it. The rings are designated A through to F and the sections are numbered. So we are now in the Ludus Training and Sparring room section which is D2. And next up, D3 is the Ludus Mess and Nutrition section. D4 is the Barracks and Living Quarters section and so on. Other rings are Administration and Flight Control, Life-support, Medical, Research and Communications. The central core contains the Engine Room, Reactor Compartment, Astronomy and Navigation and so on.”
“I'm in space,” Ram said. “I’m in actual space.”
“Try to keep up, Rama,” Milena said. “Through that next door is the ludus mess hall, so go in and start filling up on calories. I’ll stop blocking the hunger signals now so you have an appetite. You'll need to eat thousands of calories per day just to maintain that muscle mass and on top of that, you'll be exercising rigorously. You'll spend much of your downtime eating and drinking protein nutrient shakes.”
“Sounds amazing,” Ram said. “Eating is the one thing I do at an elite level. You're not coming in?”
“Don't worry,” Milena said, patting his arm. “I'll hear and see everything, other than at night. There's a device in your ear and a microphone in your jaw, so I can speak to you anytime I want and all you need do is whisper and I'll hear you. There are cameras everywhere other than the barracks and even there I will keep watch on your vital signs. Nothing you say or do goes unnoticed or unrecorded. Good luck. Show no fear, especially to the subjects who will be your enemies. Remember, you need allies from the rest. Survive, Rama. Survive.”