Heir of G.O'D. Revelations

by Harper Maze

  Calm, I try to tell myself. I count to three and click my visor on again. Still nothing. Fear like nothing I’ve ever felt before bubbles like a speck of poison travelling through my gut. Keep calm, Ana. It’s probably nothing.

  Noise, the low murmur of several shocked voices, resound from the street outside.

  I force myself to breathe a few times, and try again. Sol is not there.

  “My…” I try to speak, but my mouth has gone dry. I sip on the alcohol and try again. “My visor’s not working.”

  I hear the familiar click of my TV turning on, but instead of the soft hum of power, I hear a hiss and picture a viper inside my TV, taunting me.

  “Sol’s not come back up,” says Mika. “My connection’s down.”

  “And mine,” adds Omar.

  We fall into silence which makes the din from outside seem worse. Angry shouts begin to cut through the general hubbub, and the clatter of sound increases as people realise Sol has not come back online. Drunken yells begin as arguments break out. A shot is fired, then another. People run, screaming. A third shot, and the frantic footsteps of people fleeing clatter off the metal footpath. I can feel the container floor bouncing beneath my treadmill as scores of people escape. Someone thumps on the door. It’s locked, and there’s no way I’m opening it. For anyone.

  “Stay back, Ana.” Omar, calm and collected, places his hand on my arm, but even his voice is marked with nerves.

  I hear the snap of Mika’s holster as he removes his gun and steps closer to the door. His ear-device bleeps, and a tinny, muffled voice sounds. They hardly ever use their comms; this must be serious. It sounds like Denver, but I can’t be sure. “We’re safe. With Ana,” Mika replies to the unheard question. “Will do. Omar, the guys are looking into it. Denver said to stay put.”

  I test Sol every few seconds, fighting against the terror of it never coming back. Each anxious thump of my heart is like the tolling of a relentless bell that extols a permanent darkness. I can’t speak, so fearful that if I part my lips a stream of vomit will pour from my innards. My hands are clammy and trembling inside the haptic gloves. I keep my visor in place, refusing to take it off in case somehow that action dooms Sol to be offline forever. The thought, I know, is dumb, but I can’t stop my mind racing through the scenarios and what-ifs. What will I do? Where will I live? How will I afford to eat if I can’t fight in-Sim for prize money anymore?

  My visor flickers and a yelp escapes before I can clamp a hand over my parched lips. The launch screen displays, the one that only appears on Rebirth Day. It’s the flight of a small craft, starting in the outer reaches of space and passing through the Kuiper Belt. Zooming towards the sun, it passes planets and moons, the asteroid belts and various man-made craft like the satellites that now uselessly orbit the real cloud-encased Earth. At one point the camera passes through the tail of Halley’s Comet, ice crystals forming on the screen. I don’t remember the image from previous years, but I’m usually so keen to return to Sol that I don’t take much notice.

  Then, like a life ring splashing into an angry sea before a drowning man, my apartment materialises around me. It’s exactly as I remember it, and all the changes that I made have been saved. Despite the standing Sol-Corp and O’Drae policy that anything inside 3arth R3al 3state will not revert during the Rebirth system reboot, I’m always worried that an analyst somewhere might hit the wrong button and wipe everything away.

  “Is yours back too, O?” asks Mika.

  “Yes, babe. I wonder what it was?”

  “A glitch, maybe? I’ll ask around when we get back to base. Do you know what the new counter is?”

  In my frantic excitement, I hadn’t noticed it, but in the top-right corner of my HUD, in red digits on a white background is a number and a message.

  It reads ‘365 Days before Baktun’.

  “No. None. Sorry, Mika.”

  “That’s cool, I’ll check that too. Ana, ready to finish setting up your container?”

  I’m not. A reality that I haven’t experienced in some time hit me during the launch sequence, and the image of the craft going through the comet’s tail remains burned onto my visual cortex. Tiny particles of ice falling on the screen, little snowflakes forming into an ice sheet as clear as spring water. I’ve taken Sol for granted; I’ve become complacent, believing that it will always be there, always remain in my life. Yet Sol is simply another technology. And technology breaks, just like my fridge at the end of Edison last year, when it spewed cold water all over my treadmill and short-circuited my omni’s motor. Despite Sol being back, I can’t stop shaking, I feel a loss inside like when Rosemary passed away.

  I nod, because I need to distract myself. I also want to get my cameras working so I can see realworld outside, in case something goes wrong with Sol again. Only if it did, the cameras wouldn’t work. Frack!

  “Om, have you seen this?” asks Mika. I’ve never heard so much fear in his voice, not in the twelve or more years that I’ve known him. An incoming link flashes on my HUD, Mika’s bear icon appearing next to it. The message is a forward of a broadcast running on a loop; weirdly though, it’s from Arm@g3dd0n and not one of the news Corps.

  Still wearing the same outfit from the presentation ceremony (nothing in-Sim ever gets dirty), Arm@g3dd0n lounges back in a vintage dark-red leather Chesterfield armchair with chunky thick arms, and renaissance brass studs. A table sits in front of him with his notes beaming up from a hidden screen, lending his wrinkled face an eerie greenish glow. A screen facing the camera covers the front of the table, obscuring Arm@g3dd0n’s trousers, so that only his shiny shoes are visible.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls, non-binary, gender fluid, non-gender and non-decided. Welcome to this, an emergency and extraordinary broadcast from my company. You will, I have no doubt in my mind, have witnessed the delay in Sol returning to our screens earlier today. My researchers have recovered a hidden message left by the man himself, Gary O’Drae.”

  Arm@g3dd0n pauses for dramatic effect and takes a sip of fake, in-Sim, malt whiskey. “But first, live images of Halley’s Comet.”

  The same image from the boot screen, of Halley’s comet blazing through the sky against the black backdrop of deep space, fills both the small display in front of Arm@g3dd0n’s legs and the larger screen between the bookcases on the wall behind him.

  “Experts have verified that the comet is out of its realworld orbit. They are still running validation scripts, but to our knowledge this is the only change to Sol. I will leave this image onscreen whilst I read the message that Gary O’Drae himself left hidden for all these years in the Rebirth code, specified for launch today.”

  Arm@g3dd0n clears his throat and theatrically lifts a blank sheet of paper in front of him.

  “‘I, Gary O’Drae, write this as my last will and testament. I am of sound mind and do so of my own free will and…’

  “Yadda, yadda, yadda. A whole load of legal stuff,” says Arm@g3dd0n. “Ah, here we go.

  “‘I agreed to bring back Sol to curb the Bleakness, but we must protect and preserve Sol for the people – we must not allow the corporates to profit from it. I’m locking down Earth in this updated version to keep it just as it was in 2020, and will do so at the end of each year, as a reminder to all of what Earth was before the Devastation. I hurt though, worse than ever before, and I know I don’t have long left. Cancer eats away at my body, and despite all the scientific achievements and astounding progress, it still defeats us. Breathing hurts, moving hurts, living hurts. But the thought of leaving this earth, of making my baby an orphan, rips me apart worse than any cancer ever could. How I wish we had not lost Halag giving birth to our wondrous and miraculous baby.

  “‘Johann disagrees, both with me locking down Sol, and with me leaving Sol to my Heir in my will, but what can he do? Regardless of what he does legally, my wishes are hardcoded into Sol itself. There are no backdoors, no trapdoors and there is no secret access. There is one way to take control, and on
ly one person can do that. Sol is secured, locked until my Heir is of age. By that time, Sol might have been replaced, it may even be offline, who knows? But if not, well, my legacy is protected, and my wishes are clear.’”

  Arm@g3dd0n pauses again, scratching the end of his nose as if in thought. “More boring stuff, then this:

  “‘To my child, my baby and my heir. I give you my love eternal, as I always have. I can still feel you in my arms, and still hear myself singing our song to you. It was selfish of me, but I always regretted you could never see me. The visor that Fee and I developed for you…’

  “Hmm,” Arm@g3dd0n taps his earpiece. “This can’t become public.” He taps his ear again in dramatic style. “Remove it, and remove all copies of it forthwith. Before we transmit. Now, where was I? Oh yes, here will do:

  “‘I locked Sol, my child, for you. I wanted you to see the world where your wonderful mother, Halag, and I grew up, and met, and fell in love. Make the most of the years that you have left to explore Sol, to see and experience our earth as it was. Then, when you are eighteen, you can decide what you wish to do with it.

  “‘On the Intercalary Day, 2044, your eighteenth birthday, Halley’s comet will strike the 3arth in Sol and trigger a trojan virus that will erase everything. I called this day Baktun, the end of the Mesoamerican Mayan Long Calendar, in a tribute to some of the more outrageous doomsday theories that shrouded the end of the year 2012. Unless you decide to stop it.

  “‘You will make the correct decision, I am sure. You are your mother’s child.

  “‘Go with my love, and with the love of your mother Halag, who held you once and kissed your forehead and blessed you with all she had left.

  “‘Gary Ruairí O’Drae

  “‘7th FEBRUARY 2029’”

  Arm@g3dd0n drops the blank sheet and looks directly into the lens. “Well, my friends, it seems that today’s little software blip was rather a deliberate sign of what is to come. In 365 days’, unless this Heir comes forward, Sol will be terminated. Obliterated! We will form markets within the hour. Such fun!”

  Unable to control myself any longer, I projectile vomit date-laced liquor all over the floor.

  One Year Later

  Thursday, Halley 18th, 2044

  11 days before Baktun

  I, Gary O’Drae, on behalf of Umbra, would like to invite every user of Sol, their neighbours and their neighbour’s neighbours to join us.

  Umbra would like to announce the creation of dozens of Havens that we are constructing in shipping yards, positioned along the coast of countries close to the equator. Each Haven will provide temporary accommodation, food, power, safety and Sol access.

  Please join us before it’s too late. All are welcome.

  Umbra Covenant

  -08-

  Gazing up at the rapidly-spinning silver and orange mass of Jupiter as it passes by overhead never ceases to make my breath catch. The enormous swirling red storm is hypnotic, and it’s why I love being on Io, the largest of Jupiter’s moons. Even when I’m in an Arena battle, like now, I still take a moment to stop and absorb the utterly awe-inspiring view. The contrast between Jupiter’s sheen, and the blackness of space surrounding it is a total disconnect, like a perverse reminder of the kaleidoscope of sight that I have in-Sim, compared to the total blackness of realworld.

  “Ana. Contact, three-hundred clicks, eleven o’clock.” Denver’s metallic voice echoes in my ear, like he’s some sort of robot.

  “Found him,” I say into my microphone. I squeeze my fingers together, stretch them out and start rolling my shoulders and neck to refocus my concentration on the Arena. The endless yellow of the volcanic surface makes my brain throb if I focus for too long, which my mind translates to weariness in my eye sockets. I knuckle them (even though it never helps). As Baktun draws closer, my anxiety is growing, the need to place high in the Arena rankings, and earn $uns is pushing me on. I’m hyper-aware of my obsession, because it fills my mind when I’m awake and haunts me in nightmares during the briefest moments that I allow myself to sleep. Often, I feel nauseated at the thought of a world without Sol, gripped by the realisation that it really is going, Baktun is rushing closer like an out-of-control brakeless train screeching towards the station. And I’m the one standing at the edge of the platform, too scared to move.

  Where the frack is the Heir? Who’s hiding him?

  The volcano beneath my feet rumbles with continual anger, and another plume of toxic sulphuric gas and dust spews out from the vent to my left.

  Denver’s right, as he so often is. Barking orders and warnings, he’s like some military sergeant from those old classic movies like Platoon. I pick up the briefest of movements through my scope, the minutest sweep of a gun barrel on the hill opposite, as the wielder scans their surroundings looking for targets. Whoever it is picked their spot well, nested deep inside a small natural pyramid of sulphuric rocks with only the black shaft of their gun-barrel visible. Where there’s a gap for a gun, there’s enough space for a bullet, I muse.

  I pause and steady myself. Holding my breath, I focus and gently squeeze the trigger. My reward is a spray of red splattering across the yellow stones. The flashing neon scoreboard in the corner of my HUD, directly beneath the counter that today reads ‘11 Days before Baktun’, registers another kill for me, putting me seventh place overall on the leader board.

  “Great shooting, Ana. Eight more to go. I’m with you.” Denver’s voice grows louder when he’s excited. His exuberance can be both distracting and contagious, neither of which are compatible with the calm focus that I need right now. Even though I’m accustomed to his antics, I still jump when he’s overexuberant. Loud sounds, particularly unexpected ones, always shock me. Noises are still one of my biggest phobias.

  The sensors embedded within my victim’s haptic suit confirm the kill, and six-fingered D0m1n3M0rti$ finally drops from the scoreboard. Taking my chance to move, I duck low and strafe stealthily to my left, stepping lightly to avoid creating plumes of sulphuric dust behind me. I receive the chance to loot and grunt when I see the low value of his items, woeful for an Arena superstar. There is a bag of holding though, which is useful and trades for a decent price on Sol-Bay (well, they used to). I swipe the bag and refocus on the Arena.

  As I move, constantly scanning for motion, I can hear Denver grumbling away at the public broadcasts. Using a spotter in tournaments is not permitted, but making it deep in Arenas without one is almost impossible. I would bet most of my $uns that DiscipleShuzo has a spotter too, if not a team of them. Arenas are big business, thanks to how many people gamble on the exchanges, putting $uns against the winners, losers, even the next kill. Betting on Arenas and other events is Denver’s forte.

  Placing each foot with meticulous precision, taking care not to disturb any sulphuric dust, I skirt around the edge of the volcanic cone. “Easy does it, Ana,” I whisper to myself. My hands are shaking. My goal is so close I can almost taste it. A few more kills and I can… “Frack!”

  One tiny dip in concentration and I slip on the scree, skidding in a plume of dust. I’m not sure whether it’s the sulphur cloud or my sudden movement that attracts the attention, but a bullet whooshes past my head. “Where are they?” I screech at Denver as I charge down the scree towards a horse-sized boulder, trying to vary my speed and direction to confuse my hunter. The dust-cloud behind me grows bigger with each step, and by the time I fling myself against the rock, a thick yellow fug envelopes me. I use the few scant seconds the dust takes to dissipate to crouch and move left, away from the direction of the last bullet. Keeping my back pressed to the boulder, I twist my head left and right, trying to figure out where the shooter is hiding. From his urgent chuntering in my earpiece, I can tell Denver is doing the same.

  My eye sockets throb. It’s a risky move, but I lift my visor for a moment and rub them again. Five hours inside the Arena with little respite, and I’m exhausted. Scrabbling around realworld, I retrieve a cup of water and a Pro-Bar and
gulp down the chilled liquid in the most unladylike fashion. The water is refreshing as I swish it around my tongue. Then I ram the entire bar into my mouth. “Any sign?” I ask, my mouth still full of cooked Witchetty grubs, mixed with grain and mushroom pulp. I wash my mouth out with the last of the water and swallow the crunchy shrapnel down with it.

  “No,” Denver says, his tone calmer again. When Denver is relaxed, his soothing voice is rich and deep, like the narrator of some old TV series (he’s far stingier with his words than they ever were though, hoarding them like the rest of us hoard $uns). Tall, lean and strong, Denver always sports stubble on his angular, if not chiselled cheeks and chin.

  With a sigh, I tug my ponytail down and settle the visor back in place. During my brief respite, another target has black-screened, the sixtieth kill to DiscipleShuzo. “Frack him,” I growl as he further increases his lead at the top of the table.

  “Calm, Ana.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I draw in long, deep breaths, filling my lungs with recycled air, exhaling slowly and enjoying the tingling sensation as the warm air dries my moist lips. “Keep focused,” I say to myself. I don’t need to win; I just need to earn enough $uns. This Arena is the weekly Bounty Hunter, and the number of kills matters as much as my finishing position, with each kill earning me additional bonus $uns. If I get enough, the kill-bonus often proves more valuable than the paltry prize money. Regardless, the more players that fracking COGOD Disciple takes out, the fewer targets remain for me.

  Something moves on the opposite hill, motion so minute I could have imagined it. But there’s no wind inside the Arena dome, and no animals exist in here either. I ready my rifle, the Heckler & Koch G28, peer through the scope, and focus. It might be nothing, but I rely on my instincts and pull the trigger. A figure spins out from behind some cover, grasping at their shoulder. Before they can regain their balance, I take them out as my follow-up shot strikes them between the eyes. Another player black-screens into the ether, and I start moving again in case she was not my hunter. At that precise moment, the crack of a high calibre sniper rifle echoes in the valley, the rock behind me explodes with the impact of a 50mm round, and I charge with abandon away from the shooter.