Heir of G.O'D. Revelations

by Harper Maze

  “Go left. No, Ana, your other left. Be careful, you’re…” is all Denver shouts before my head explodes in a cloud of red, and I’m shrouded in darkness as I black-screen.

  -09-

  “Frack it!” I can’t help but scream. “I was so goddamned close.” Ripping my visor off in frustration, I slump against my suit’s straps. Somewhere in front of me, back in realworld, Denver growls in anger and throws something. It clatters off to my left. Whatever he threw, and the thing it struck, drop with a thud-clunk to the padded flooring.

  “Frack indeed,” Denver says, frustration and anger tightening his throat. He unclips too, and stomps about as if it’s him that lost.

  “Where did I finish?” I’m not sure I want the answer.

  “Fourth. If you’d concentrated a little more, or listened when I told you to move…”

  “Alright. I get it.” As the adrenaline ebbs away, the pain in my head surges to a new level. “Frack.” Reaching for the tub of medicine with ‘PK’ carved into the lid, I count out a couple of pills. “You lost then?”

  “Yeah, backed you for top three. 5,000 $uns on it.”

  “We’re a pair of fracking losers then.” If I reacted to the bubbling anger I feel at myself, I’d probably launch my visor across the room too. It’s far too valuable though, it was uniquely built for me almost two decades ago. Compared to the thin spectacles available now, my visor is like something out of the Ark from the start of the century, the new models are all useless to me though. Another couple of weeks and my visor will be equally useless unless I make enough $uns. “So close,” I mumble, not daring to return to Sol and see just how close to my total I got. I fumble around in my fridge (other than my visor, the most highly valuable item that I possess, and undoubtably the single greatest investment of my Arena winnings to date), I retrieve a fresh tin of water and swallow the pills.

  “Oh well, there’s always next week’s Festival events,” Denver says in that annoyingly reassuring tone he reserves for when he’s fracked off but doesn’t want to show it. “And you qualified for the Invitational again.”

  “Frack next week. Sol’s ending, in case you forgot? I need $uns now!”

  “That again? I thought we were past that after the last two engineers flaked out. It’s not safe, Ana. You know Sol-Corp have stepped up their hunt for bl…”

  It took weeks of tediously painstaking research to find the pair of them, then check out their credentials to make sure they were both legit and had no connection to Sol-Corp. Then, almost the same day that I made enough $uns to pay, they both vanished. This one, someone Musa found, hasn’t disappeared yet.

  “Go on, say it.” I’m so angry at myself for losing that I don’t even try to keep the venom from my voice.

  “… for people like you.”

  I rub my sockets irritably and replace my visor, waiting whilst the cluster-zone forms around me. I missed the podium, so when Arm@g3dd0n waves in my direction, I turn the other way. I don’t feel the need to speak to him, I’m not in the mood. Avoiding the Sol-Corp armoured wasps as best I can, I skirt around the stage, collect my prize packets, loot some sort of over-blanket and a bag of holding from the last two victims, then port to my replica container on Steins. The cameras fire to life and, like some sort of out of body experience, I see myself, dangling on my harness above the omnidirectional treadmill. The fridge beside my rig is a mess as it always is after an Arena, and the empty tin that Denver threw is on the floor (but for the screens I would probably have kicked it). The cameras have changed my life; even though it’s a bit like watching myself on grainy CCTV, I can see myself! But, like everything else that’s light in my life, my cameras will die when Sol does. Unless I find enough $uns to pay the engineer, when Sol dies, so will my sight.

  “This is my last chance to get the upgrade! I don’t give a frack about the risk. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “But what if this engineer is working for Sol-Corp? What will you do then?” Denver sounds desperate, on the verge of another Rothschild-outburst. He hates that he doesn’t know who this engineer is.

  “I can’t live like this without Sol. You know that, Denver. If Sol goes, I’ll be cooped up in here like a fracking prisoner. I’m too frightened to go outside.” I shudder at the thought. “I have to do this. I’ve got no choice!”

  We’ve replayed this argument almost daily for months. Ever since Musa told me that, at a cost, an engineer might be able to upgrade my visor so that I can see realworld, not just in-Sim. Baktun is fast approaching, and I’m desperate. I know it’s wrong, but I scream at Denver anyway, because there’s nothing he can say. He can’t possibly understand.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be blind!”

  -10-

  Realworld, the moment I take my visor off, I’m in total darkness. I was born this way and I’ve never known anything different. Despite this, I still count myself as lucky, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve had my own modified bespoke visor. Thanks to its hacked wiring, and the tiny implant surgically embedded into my visual cortex, when I’m in-Sim, I can see like everyone else. Inside Sol, I can tour our entire solar system, visit all the places that existed on Earth in 2020 when historical countries like Greenland, Iceland and the United States all still existed. But Sol is so much more. Movies play nonstop in the theatres on the Moon, Mars is alive with bustling trade zones (both legitimate and black-market), Venus hosts every sporting event that you could ever wish to see; the whole of Sol is alive with possibilities. The asteroid belt is where all the expensive in-Sim real estate (or R3al 3stat3, to use its correct alphanumericabet title) is situated. With the right visor filter, it’s even possible to stand on the sun’s surface in Sol without burning.

  The creator of Sol, Gary O’Drae, or G.O’D. as most people call him, replicated the entire solar system and turned it into a mass simulation, then made the Sim available to everyone left on Earth. For free. At least it’s available until Baktun, when 3arth, along with the rest of Sol, explodes thanks to G.O’D.’s coding, and his decision to pass Sol to his Heir. Only, nobody knows who the Heir is, or where he’s hiding. The only thing we can be sure of is that right now he’s alive, because last Rebirth Day, after reset, the torch in the Statue of Liberty’s hand started glowing green.

  Trying to imagine a world without the Sim brings back memories of that awful time last Rebirth Day and makes me want to puke, so I focus every ounce of my energy on something else. A plan that Denver doesn’t agree with – buying the upgrade to my visor so I can see realworld.

  “You don’t need to remind me, Ana.” Denver growls to himself as he stomps around my container. He can creep around almost soundlessly, like a sneak, but sometimes he thunders like the elephants in-Sim. I can always hear him though, sneak or not, from the rustle of his haptic pants as he walks, or the creak of his harness, or the scrape of his boots on the floor. I’m so accustomed to him being in the unit with me that I can point to his precise location without using the cameras. At present, he’s approaching my fridge. “Want another water?” The rattle of the door opening sounds a moment later and I smirk inwardly.

  “Thanks,” I reply, holding my hand out and watching him approach on the camera above the door. He’s big, not as big as Mika (who’s over one-ninety), but he tops one-eight-five. At first, I found him daunting as he loomed over me, but I got used to it. Denver exudes strong scents like man-sweat mixed with soap, and subtler aromas like camel’s milk and outside. The thought of going outside still makes my palms sweat and my heart race. Despite having one camera pointed to outside, it’s still full of loud sounds I can’t identify, and people and objects beyond the camera’s view. It’s not safe. The water calms me a little, it’s refreshing and cool, even though it bears the subtle twang of metal storage tank and a distinct hint of carbon filter (I always wondered if I could have made it as a food critic).

  I can perceive the gentle swish of his finger on the screen as he swipes on his tablet. “43,000 $un
s!”

  “What is?”

  “How much I was going to win on the exchanges. One more place, Ana.”

  Over 40,000 $uns is a lot, more than the 30,000 $uns I get for fourth place. The bounty on my kills racks up more; thirty-two kills at 1,000 $uns each. Despite my success, by the time I factor in entry costs, ammunition and my lost bounty, I’m still short of my final target. I take another swig of the chilled water. “Who got me?”

  “Who do you think? Shuzo.”

  “Frack. Again? I hate that guy!” (Hate is perhaps a strong word, because I’ve never actually met him, but every Church of G.O’D. follower that I’ve met in-Sim so far has been a total fidiot – fracking idiot)! Disciples like Shuzo, Jukic, Janus and Zhong are fanatical, financed and skilled. Mercifully, only a small number of COGOD followers are experts in Arena combat, but the Church is still relentlessly trying to recruit more of the most skilled arena fighters.

  Despite my best efforts, Shuzo hasn’t lost a single Bounty Hunter Arena in over two years. He uses a custom Barrett, preferring the M82 model that can penetrate some thinner materials that people hide behind. In sniper events, I run with the Barrett M99. Like my guns, his M82 is extensively modified with a larger magazine, some form of auto-loading system and an enhanced scope (and I’m sure it has some hacks too). I’ve been beaten by him so many times now, I’ve learnt my lesson and never take anything too valuable within my three-item Arena allowance. I know without checking what he’ll have taken.

  The visor rumbles a warning message that I haven’t collected my Bounty Hunter loot, essentially locking up the Arena. The moment I place my booted feet on the floor, the harness cable hooked between my shoulder blades retracts until it’s taut and the omnidirectional treadmill, embedded in my container floor, unlocks with a satisfying clunk. Using my haptic-gloved hand, I swipe through my onscreen inventory. “He took my gun again. Fracker.”

  I check my $uns balance. To most people I’m rich, nothing like the corporate elites of course, but wealthy enough for sure. But, despite the Bounty Hunter winnings, my balance is still 36,000 $uns short of my one million $uns target. I’m so close it hurts. I take solace in the items I looted though, hoping they might just raise something on Sol-Bay (though the Sol markets are dying; everything in Sol will be useless after Baktun). I work out the rough cost in my head for how much a new weapon will be, plus a few Remembrance Festival qualifier entry fees, more food, electricity, water. “One more kill…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Thirty-odd thousand short,” I reply. “One more kill, and I might have made enough.”

  “Maybe it’s fate then.” Denver can be so fracking annoying when he’s fracked off.

  A sound like an irate snake escapes my lips.

  “What? You can’t trust them, Ana. You don’t know who he is or who he works for. Same as the others, look what happened to them.”

  “I trust Musa. I should have gone to her first. Not listened to you.” I’m getting angry but, annoyingly, I can’t argue with him because I know he’s right. After spending countless weeks of research, trawling the trade boards and services sites, I couldn’t find a reliable alternative to Musa’s engineer. At least, not a safe alternative. What’s worse, to get my visor upgraded I’ll have to go outside, and that’s why I need Denver’s help. At least we agree that inviting someone to come to my container would be far more dangerous than me travelling to meet them. I’m terrified, I can’t help it. I haven’t left my home in almost two years (other than being hauled off to Hamilton’s for Remembrance). I haven’t travelled outside since I had appendicitis, and I can’t even remember the time before that.

  “How? Why? She’s a mercenary. Musa’s only doing this for the $uns.”

  “You know her better than that! She’s been getting us stuff for years. She supplies all my G28s,” I state defiantly, although which of us I’m trying to convince is not quite clear.

  Denver’s angry, but I know that he’s just trying to protect me, to shield me from everything. He’s always protected me, guarded me, kept all the bad people away, as he calls them. Now he’s angry again, and he’s making it glaringly obvious with his incessant stomping around the container like he’s twelve (not eighteen). I watch him strutting around on the screens.

  He starts muttering to himself, but in this confined space I can hear every single word.

  “…years of keeping her safe and she does this. She’s not going to give up. She’s obsessed.” He stops talking and draws in a deep breath, like he’s trying to compose himself. Then he walks over to my chair and takes my gloved hands in his. I can see him towering over me, the tautness of his jaw visible even in the grainy CCTV picture. Rubbing his thumbs over the backs of my fingers, he gently squeezes my hand. This is Denver’s way of being serious. “You can’t trust anyone, especially the Corps. They only care about $uns, and power. And you know Sol-Corp is the worst.”

  “Sol-Corp’s focused on the markets, and on saving Sol.”

  “Which makes them desperate enough to…”

  “Which means…” I interrupt, “it’s less likely they’ll be interested in a blind girl from the Dubai Haven. And what evidence do you have that Musa’s working for Sol-Corp?” My voice rises at the end. I need to keep cool. If I get too vocal with Denver, he’ll shut down, and then he won’t take me. “I know, I hate outside, and it could be a trap. But what’s the alternative? Being locked in here with no Sol, nothing to do, and nothing to see, with no way of earning $uns even for food? I can’t do it Denver, I just can’t. Rebirth was bad enough...” Mentioning it makes me shiver again. “Even if trusting someone, trusting Musa, gets me killed. I’m as good as dead without Sol! You know that!” I can’t help shouting now.

  “Fine!” He snatches his hands back. “Do what you want, but don’t expect me to help you get yourself killed!” His footsteps echo across the container, like the Remembrance Day bell that tolls every hour for the dead. “Remember, you can’t trust anyone, Ana. Think about your mother!”

  “What about her?” I screech.

  “I’m sorry, Ana. I shouldn’t…”

  “No, tell me.”

  “You know. She left you, abandoned you in that slum warehouse.” The number-pad on the door beeps with the exit code. The door opens and a wash of cool air rushes into the container, accompanied by the stench of outside. “She left you there, alone.” Moments later, the door whooshes shut behind him and I watch him stomp along the footpath on the external camera until he’s out of view.

  Focusing on calming myself after another Denver outburst, I detach the harness, remove my gloves and visor, and place them reverently on the fridge. My mother is no more than a vague spectre in my memory. She left when I was four, abandoned me, according to Denver. All that remains from those days are my visor, which was created to work with my implant, and a stuffed toy squirrel called Jeepers. Oh, and a silver locket which hangs around my avatar’s neck in-Sim, the one I’ve never been able to take off. If I could remember how to cry, the way I used to in the orphanage, I probably would. But for as long as Sol exists, I own my container and everything in it – from my Braille books to my salvaged fridge and microwave. I don’t need Denver. I curse him long after he’s left.

  Of late, being angry or frustrated with Denver is pretty much standard. He drives me mad some days, though judging by his raging temper tantrums, I do the same to him. I finish the water and reach for another Pro-Bar. Denver can be so damned unreasonable at times. He is looking out for me though, like a big brother should care for his adopted sister. “Am I doing the right thing?” I ask the silent darkness around me, a question that’s been plaguing my thoughts since Musa first had the idea a month after the Rebirth debacle (after I stopped feeling sorry for myself). Perhaps if I had grown up without Sol, if my world had always been black, then I wouldn’t care about Sol going.

  My body reminds me that I need to use the bathroom, so I replace my visor, push myself up and step off the treadmill p
latform. I need to relax, so I unzip my haptic boots and leave them in their dedicated spot directly to the left of my fridge. Even with the cameras in the container, old habits die hard. My bare feet touch the floor padding, which is always toasty-warm, thanks to the solar-heated seawater that flows through pipes embedded beneath the containers. More pipes run through my ceiling, heating the floor of the container above. If I stand still, I can detect the tiny vibrations with my toes. Watching myself through the camera above the door, I step from the treadmill into the kitchen area.

  A year ago, I used to count my steps, always afraid of bumping into something, cautious of adding to the myriad of bumps and bruises on my legs and arms. I know I’m already taking the cameras for granted (even if it is like watching myself on one those old TV crime programmes, where the police track someone’s movements as they drop in and out of different CCTV images). Perhaps if the cameras were going to stay functional after Sol switches off, I could cope. Maybe. But they’ll be as useless to me as the rest of my Sol stuff. And I meant what I said to Denver too, without Sol I can’t afford to look after myself; all my skills are in-Sim. Without Sol I’m about as useful as a flightless duck in hunting season (and I’ll likely last as long).

  Despite the cameras, I kept the layout of my container the same, almost identical to the patent design. Every item of furniture has its place, and each item in the cupboards or drawers, or on the shelves, is always in the same position. I watch the image of myself from behind (which is always a little weird), as I wander warily from the largest front rig—and kitchen—portion of the container, through the narrow doorway and into the bedroom section. My in-Sim gaze automatically switches to the bedroom camera, and I view myself from the front, trying to ignore the sallow cut to my cheeks, and the worry-lines creasing the sliver of forehead visible above the visor. I’m no expert, but surely no eighteen-year-old should have wrinkles like mine. The visor looks like an old-fashioned white house-brick strapped across my face. Shaking my head, I stop scrutinising my image and head to the bathroom.