Heir of G.O'D. Revelations

by Harper Maze

  The sheer mass of Mars demonstrates the majesty of Sol on a planetary scale, but the park is equally as impressive in its minuscule detail. Swiping zoom on my visor brings a single blade of grass into focus. I can see the veins in the grass, the clumps of red soil around its base and a short trail of worker ants climbing its stem. A ladybird flutters in on translucent wings and lands on the tip, bending the blade under her weight. The bug senses the surroundings with quivering antenna before springing away again.

  Although the scene is like a cross between a 20th century shopping arcade and a Dickensian park, the sky is always an ominous burning red. The surface of Mars, where it’s visible between all the superimposed footpaths, grass, buildings and rivers, is red too. Apparently, there were realworld unmanned flights to Mars around the time I was born; these showed that the atmosphere was red when viewed from the surface, and Sol replicates that precisely. Despite how busy Mars appears in-Sim, mankind never got to settle here realworld.

  Avatars mill about everywhere, people going about their daily trades and chores. The majority are heading to the food and power companies to stock up on vouchers or arrange deliveries. A steady trail of people meanders from the teleport to the shops, like the Sim-ants scaling the blade of grass. The stores retailing 3arth products and Sol-fluff (such as furnishings, transport, and clothing), are mostly devoid of customers. The 3Es store—3arth R3al 3state—is also empty, proving that in-Sol business is almost dead. If I had spare $uns, I might be tempted to gamble on Sol being saved. The prices are so ridiculously low. Glancing around, I note an exception; a few people are heading to the Sim-haptics stores, rather than to purchase realworld commodities.

  “They’re doing a sale on Fully-Immersive suits,” Denver comments from behind me. In-Sim I see the name of his avatar – $h@tters0u1 (or Shattersoul if you revert to the archaic alphabet), floating above his head. My avatar name G@n@le0 similarly rotates ponderously above mine. Most of the men heading into Haptical Illusions, however, have their names turned off.

  Denver’s avatar is almost identical to his realworld appearance; tall, muscled and toned, with a firm jaw, deep grey eyes and cropped hair. His avatar today is dressed in jeans, an army vest and combat boots, with a holster at his waist and an M16 strapped over one shoulder (neither weapon works outside of the Arenas or practice ranges though). Facially, the only notable difference between the two Denver’s is that the realworld two-inch scar on his cheek doesn’t appear in Sol. Like me, Denver used the self-scanning app from SimSim, a Chinese corp. It creates a realistic 3D rendering of a face and body, then permits you to change anything you like (within reason). Despite numerous requests, Sol-Corp does not allow anyone to be non-humanoid (no Elves, Orcs, Dwarfs, Klingons, Robots or any other manner of non-human humanoid), except temporarily within fantasy style Arena competitions, where anything goes! Hacks let you change your appearance in-Sim, but never to non-human. Sol was never designed as a game, but as a reminder of Earth as it was before the Devastation, so the avatar-people wandering around in-Sim are realistic, whilst the endless less-realistic games and competitions are primarily hosted off-3arth.

  I remember when I remodelled my own avatar, Denver got me a new sim upgrade for my sixteenth. It was before my cameras were installed, so it was the first time I was able to see a true representation of how I actually look. Denver rigged-up the body scanner in my shower, and it rendered my whole body in perfect 3D (acne, crooked nose and chewed fingernails included). The new render had blank eyes, so I replaced these with piercing blue eyes and completed the look with blacked-out wraparound aviator shades. ‘Scratty’ was the word that came to mind when he asked me what I thought of how I looked. It took me several minutes of composing myself before I turned off the clothed setting. My naked pixel doppelganger spun on the platform like a rotating monolith of kebab meat. I’m shorter than I’d like, with a complexion so pale I think if I drew a chalk line on my skin it would just blend in completely. My legs are skinny and peppered with fine hairs (me using a razor is never going to go well)! My hair, which I never cut, is coppery-red and falls straight down my back without a wave or curl in sight. I wear it, in-Sim and realworld, in a ponytail. Denver describes my face as cute-elfin, but I’m not an extra from Lord of the Rings. I would use sallow-cheeked or dorky-odd. In-Sim I almost always wear my customary green-brown patched khaki combat trousers, deep pine-needle green vest and heavy combat boots to go with the shades. It’s like my in-Sim uniform.

  “Why would people buy suits now? They’ll be useless in a week.”

  “Um, well you’ve heard about Ganymede and what happens there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Everyone knows about Ganymede, including me. Ganymede is somewhere that I’ve never visited (and never want to either). The thought makes me cringe. Of course, I do understand why people want full suits with all the extra attachments. I must admit though, it amuses me to tease Denver because I’m not as naïve as he thinks.

  “So, they’re selling the full suits at cost price, and the older models a lot cheaper than that.”

  “Makes sense.” Full haptic suits, which replicate a blow, bullet or something brushing against the skin are distracting. However, it’s impossible to use most of Sol without them, full haptics are mandatory in Arenas and most other competitions. My suits use the latest advances in Magnetorheological fluid to provide resistance, although I have a small hack from Samir to lessen the effects a little. It’s not possible to switch them off entirely though, because the suits have two-way feeds which update Sol thousands of times a second, but even the subtlest of changes can be the difference between maintaining concentration and black-screening. On Ganymede, most of the attention is focused on certain parts of the body, where the haptics use both internal and external content. Enough said.

  My suit is relatively new, but, if they are discounting the suits …

  I jump up from the bench and head to the Haptic store. There is something I want, and perhaps the price has dropped enough that I can afford it.

  “I thought we were meeting Musa?” Denver asks, keeping stride with me. As we reach the shop, Denver’s assertions are confirmed. The shop is deserted aside from a few furtive-looking avatars with their names blanked out, skulking around the cheap suits. As in many Sol stores, there are no avatar shopkeepers. Customers can speak to a realworld person through a comms unit to ask questions, but all sales are automated. Like most shops dealing in realworld products, Haptical Illusions set the prices, control the stocks and organise drone deliveries from realworld warehouses and stores, while the employees work from their containers.

  “We are, but we’ve got time yet. I want to check the prices.”

  “You’re going to buy their fully Immersive suit?” I enjoy the surprise in his voice a little more than I should.

  Walking past the displays of suits, I can’t help pausing beside the new visors. The latest models resemble sunglasses, unlike the old-fashioned full headset style of visor that I’m forced to use. Denver uses some highly expensive but effective Ray-Bans with inbuilt augmented reality from a rival firm Active Haptics Corps.

  I continue with an internal sigh and find the haptic gloves section. I’m rewarded for my efforts because the ones I’ve desired since the day they were released are on sale too. It might not seem like much, but in the Arena every little advantage helps. The 1NX$-ME model only came out about two months ago, at the start of Hawkin. I wanted them right away, but they were prohibitively expensive at launch, and at the time I was saving to pay for the second visor engineer. My heart flutters when I check the price reduction. I can afford them and pay the new engineer. Just.

  I take the test model by swiping them from the shelf. The shop automatically checks my $uns balance to make sure that I can afford them. Checking credentials in-Sim is easy because Haptical Illusions, and any Sol-store, can check my equipment, my balance and even their closest realworld stockpile through my avatar ID. It upsets some people, those intent on privacy, bu
t the moment I stepped into their store I’d given them explicit permission to relevant information. Relevant information as deemed by the Corps. Realworld stores use a facial scan, the ID chip implanted in my wrist, or my ID card.

  The test gloves in-Sim are nothing more than a bit of Sim-enhanced code which replicates the majority of the realworld item’s functions. The test function is temporary, working only in their store, and the gloves will vanish from my avatar when I leave (even if I buy them). Corporations frequently release software upgrades, at a cost, but a new realworld version will contain improved hardware, and as such relies on the shipping of a tangible realworld product. The sparsity of resources makes products like the 1NX$-ME too expensive for all but the most successful, rich or powerful. Unless, of course, there’s a Sol-closing-down sale. My cheeks heat a little – if I had not been saving for the engineer, I could have afforded them at launch with my prize money.

  The unique hardware that makes the 1NX$-ME so expensive, is the enhanced embedded wristband that captures the subtle movements of the wearer’s hands, which can’t be replicated in the store test model. But what makes these specific gloves so desirable to me is the inclusion of customisable movement macros, functionality that can be tested here. Since the mass advertising campaign during the gloves’ launch, a seed of a potential exploit has been germinating in my mind. The commercials targeted those performing repetitive movements, like code-builders or people who work in-Sim on helpdesks. But I had another idea.

  I wander through the store to the dedicated test area at the back, complete with impossibly long test range. Choosing a booth, I swipe my inventory and search for the G28 (only I don’t own one anymore because I haven’t replaced the one Shuzo took yet). “Frack!”

  “What’s wrong?” Denver glances around like a madman with his useless gun half-drawn.

  “Shuzo took my ’28. I need to buy a new one.”

  “Is that all? I thought someone was attacking you.”

  Musa keeps at least one in stock for me, pre-loaded with the mods I use. Whoever she purchases the coded guns from makes a regular income from me (thanks to Shuzo). Omar, who designs med-packs for in-Sim healing, complains about having to write each pack individually rather than just being able to copy code, but that’s what makes Sol items cost so many $uns. The G28 coder will operate the same way, delivering what I want for a price, and that’s what keeps us slaves to the Sol economy.

  “Frack it!”

  “What this time?”

  “I need $uns to replace my gun…”

  “So…?” Denver, ever the eloquent conversationalist.

  “I’ll need $uns to pay for it.”

  “And…?”

  “Keep up!” I growl in frustration. “I can’t afford these gloves, and replace the ’28, and pay for the visor.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Men!

  It’s so frustrating, but I have to prioritise. It galls me to admit it, but replacing the gun for the Remembrance Festival events and Arenas comes first. The visor has cleaned me out and I need $uns for food and power regardless of whether the engineer fixes my visor. Everything else, after the ’28, goes to Musa, and that leaves me with less than 1,000 $uns.

  With irritation and disappointment coursing through my body, focusing on shooting is low down my list of priorities. But despite feeling vexed, I am also curious to discover if my hunch is right. I swipe my Barrett M99 sniper rifle from my inventory and set the target range to a kilometre. I’m not testing the gun, which I already know works, just the gloves. I set the rifle up, get comfortable in a prone position, load a round, then fire downrange. I’m off centre, somewhere in the seven-ring at two o’clock, according to the range target monitor.

  I prepare as though I need to shoot again, conscious that the accuracy of my movements is of the essence. With a few easy swipes I find the setting that I want on the gloves: Macros. I press my right thumb and right middle fingertip together to start recording. Then I go through my routine; eject the round; fetch a new bullet from the Reload menu; chamber the round; set the rifle; rest my index finger back on the trigger. To end the recording, I click thumb and middle finger again.

  “Will that work?” Denver asks, intrigued.

  “In theory it should. The Arena designers probably already disabled it though.”

  I prepare, aim, then pull the trigger. With the chamber emptied, I can test the function. I click thumb & middle finger together and a round chambers. After firing, I press thumb to finger, then fire again. I fall into a smooth routine of fire, press, fire, press, speeding up until I’m shooting almost as quickly with my sniper rifle as I can with a semi-automatic. The speed, thanks to the 1NX$-ME enhancements, is close to my G28, not quite as fast and certainly not as manoeuvrable, but with double the range and a noticeable increase in accuracy.

  “Holy frack, Ana, that is so cool!”

  I’m delighted that my experiment worked, but more fracked than ever now that I can’t afford the fracking gloves. “Come on, time to go.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone used that in the Arenas? It doesn’t make sense.” Denver asks, as I store the gun back in my inventory and we leave the range.

  The enhanced gloves disappear as we step back out into the park. Within a heartbeat, a pop-up appears, asking me if I want to purchase them. They don’t offer an additional discount, and while I do want them, my net $uns balance shows otherwise. I swipe the offer closed. “They’ve probably banned it. But if you worked out how, would you tell anyone?”

  “Me, no. But some fracker would, for forum-fame.”

  “True.” Denver’s right. There’s always some fidiot who can’t help but shout about how smart they are.

  Musa’s workshop is off one of the side passages, the spoke west at nine o’clock. We turn left from the paved street to a red-earth-packed alley, then into a narrower pathway, and finally into a passage barely wide enough to walk down. Grey brick walls several stories tall tower up on either side, adding a claustrophobic sensation, which is not helped by the mere sliver of deep crimson sky above. The passage is part of Musa’s warehouse. She has a storefront on the main thoroughfare, but given the number of hacks I purchase from Musa, I prefer to meet in private. A black door with a grey entrance panel waits at the far end of the path. I put my hand up to the scanner, and the door clicks open.

  Beyond the door, everything is black, as dark as my realworld container when I take my visor off. We shuffle into the entrance space and allow the outer door to close behind us. Another door inside unlocks and swings sedately open, allowing a shard of yellow light to slice through the darkness. The light expands to reveal the rear of Musa’s workshop centimetre by frustrating centimetre. The space is enormous, packed with never-ending racks of in-Sim gear and representations of realworld goods. Samir’s coding skills in-Sim are almost unmatched, so her sprawling Mars superstore is like walking into an endless version of my apartment’s safe. Musa is waiting for us in her familiar storeroom, a wide smile on her avatar’s pretty face. Musa is from the Mid-African States, in a place which used to be called Cameroon. The shape of her face reminds me of the Egyptian statue of Nefertiti I saw wandering the Neues Museum in Berlin, Germany. Her skin is rich deep brown and she peers at me with intense blue eyes, verging on purple, a grin like Alice’s cat splitting her face and forming soft wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.

  In three strides, she’s beside me, squeezing my shoulders. I hug her back, returning her infectious grin. Musa’s avatar is tall, almost as tall as Denver is realworld, and resplendent in an alluring black dress with sweeps of silver sequins across the bodice. The hem drops almost to her painful-looking high spiked-heel shoes, a long split up the left side revealing her avatar’s stockinged leg. Musa wears dog-tags which glisten like silver ingots against her skin. The overall look suits her, especially as she chooses her outfits primarily to distract male customers.

  “Hey Babe,” she says, still grinning (likely due to the million $uns I’m about
to give her). “That outfit again?”

  I never wear anything else. To me, outfits are just Sol-fluff. I shrug in response.

  “We watched the Arena. What did you do, give up at the end?”

  “Tell me about it,” Denver mumbles from behind me. I detach myself from Musa and turn to find him standing by the door, his face cast in shadows. He once told me that he designed his avatar’s mouth to be a sultry man-pout, but to me the twist of his lips just makes him look sulky.

  “You had $uns on again?”

  “Yeah, top three.”

  Sadly, this is about as civil as this pair ever get. Denver is my crutch realworld, whilst Musa is my best friend in-Sim and the only girl I can chat with about girl stuff (even if Musa does claim to be in her forties, which is ancient). Denver reckons she is likely not even a woman realworld. Sulky and jealous.

  “Fourth is good. At least good enough, it appears?” she smiles, referring to my message about reaching the total. Musa’s eternally friendly, but business always comes first. “It was Shuzo who took you down too. No doubt he took the Heckler & Koch again?”

  “Fracker.”

  “Let’s see what I can do,” Musa replies, sitting down at a bench bearing a monitor displaying screens like my in-Sim trade inventory (but on a much larger scale and with detailed graphics and specs). Like any shop, Musa’s store links to the exchanges, the shop system and the value indexes, allowing her to trade at the latest prices. Because of her extra interests, Musa connects to far more besides. She calls it her ‘personal extension of the Darknet’.