by Harper Maze
The train arrives with an overwhelming blast of air, like shower water when I first turn on the flow. The air is cold and blows loose strands of my hair into a messy flurry, so much so that I end up spitting the ends from my mouth. The squeal of brakes is deafening. I long to cover my ears, or cower on the floor, or run. To my relief the commotion is soon over, only to be replaced by a herd of people vomiting out from the carriages, charging past us and into the terminal. Mercifully, we wait until everyone else leaves before we make our way onboard.
Mika guides me to a seat, and I flop down in relief. He sits beside me, pinning me between him and the window. “Thank frack that’s over,” I say, my mouth dry.
“Until we reach the far end,” replies Nele, animosity and sarcasm rich in her mouse-squeak voice. “We get to do it all over again then.”
I refuse to bite and, instead, listen to the doors as they close and the engines fire up, the sound less thunderous from the inside. We accelerate away and I allow myself to drift as the others banter amongst themselves. After a few stops, I recover a faint strand of calmness and grasp on to it with the same gusto as I clutch a cacao drink. “What does it look like, Denver?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“What does what look like?”
“Dubai, the towers.”
“We can’t see much. The panels are tinted.”
“But you can see something?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to work out how to explain it. Remember when we went to the Skyline Caverns?”
I pause because we’ve visited so many places in-Sim. “The ones under the Blue Ridge? Those caves with the fairy lake thing?”
“Yeah. The buildings downtown look a bit like that cavern. Soaring silver stalagmites climbing up out of the dark water, well solar panels. All owned by those corp frackers.”
My mind flicks back to the Arena cluster-zones, and especially the larger events which are controlled by corporate frackhats lowering themselves for a few minutes to meet us (the plebs). I know the 2020 Dubai skyline, so I imagine a layer of black glass about six stories up. The picture in my mind seems unreal, silver spikes out of a black sea. I can’t picture people like Arm@g3dd0n living in them, not when the house in his feeds is so traditional. In-Sim, most things are possible though, at least off 3arth.
“While we live in containers?”
“Containers, or worse,” Nele fracking Mouse snaps. For the first time ever, she’s angry at someone other than me. “At least we have containers; many have to share, or worse, live in the slums.” The closest image of slums that I can muster is from a nineteenth-century Dickensian novel.
“Wasp guards,” Omar warns quietly through my earpiece.
We fall silent as the clump of heavy boots march along the carriage, killing any further conversation. Instead of talking, I spend the remainder of the journey working out which events I need to enter to earn enough $uns to live after Sol goes boom. I am certain I don’t want to live in any place worse than the prison I currently call home.
An automated announcement heralding the final station wakes me from my daydreaming. Following Denver’s order to wait, I remain still whilst all around us people mill about, pack bags, retrieve belongings and chatter in preparation to disembark.
“Ana,” Denver whispers, “we don’t know what’s waiting for us. Sol-Corp could be anywhere. Mika’s going to lead you. Stay with him and don’t let go, whatever happens. If I say, you dive down and cover your head. No matter what. Got it?”
If I was nervous before, now I’m terrified. Does Denver believe that Musa will attack us, or that she’s sold us out to Sol-Corp? Somehow, I manage to nod in response.
We wait for everyone else to leave before Mika guides me to my feet and we retrace our steps to the door. A breeze brushes my cheek as I step out, only for Mika to tug me to a sudden stop by my backpack strap.
“A, rear. R, slow. C, left. Move it, people.” Denver slips into Sol mode so easily. I can tell by their breathing that this is no exercise. We move forward away from the train, at the same time as people surge towards us, I assume to fight for seats. The terminal seems far busier than the one we left, and cursing fills the air as people buffet and barge around us. Denver swears and Omar shouts, then I’m suddenly torn from Mika’s grip. I drop to the floor scrabbling around on the dusty concrete platform. Someone treads on my hand and someone else kicks my shoulder, sending me sprawling. I hear the sharp crack of automatic weapon-fire and everything stops.
“Back away,” Denver orders with an authoritative tone that I only usually hear when he’s incredibly fracked off with me. “Better,” he says as Mika slips his hands beneath my armpits and hoists me to my feet. “Let’s go. Wasps are coming.”
Images of being captured and tortured by black and yellow armour-clad Sol-Corp guards is too much, and I don’t remember anything else.
-16-
“Ana?”
The loud voice is heavy with a mixture of concern and excitement. It’s also an exact match to her voice in-Sim, a blend of accents and full of rich lilting tones, almost like she’s singing. The voice is also unmistakably female.
“Musa? Where are we?”
As I come around, I realise that we’re moving. Not in a buggy or on a train, but in some sort of enclosed vehicle. By the bouncing and jostling, I think we must be moving seriously fast. A smooth hand with long fingers grips mine and squeezes.
“We’re in my Hummer. We’re being followed.”
“Who by?”
“Sol-Corp. Who do you think?” spits Nele, her anger directed at me again. “Fainting for frack’s sake. Way to remain anonymouse,” Nele mouse-mocks behind me. I snigger despite myself; Nele Mouse said anony‘mouse’. “S, they’re still behind us.”
I should be worried, but I can only focus on one thought that keeps cycling through my mind; Musa is real.
Tyres squeal as the vehicle banks sharply to the left and I’m pressed against Musa. Then we swerve right, and I’m thrown against the side of the car. I can feel a bruise already growing on my shoulder, and I know that was not the first impact. I’m grateful for the helmet, without it my skull would probably be in a few pieces by now. We swerve left once more, a long arc that keeps me pressed against Musa’s side. The unmistakable crack of a machine gun slices through the air, followed by the ping of bullets against glass and metal plating.
“Keep your heads down,” Denver barks.
Musa laughs in her Sim-familiar sing-song chuckle. “We’re safe. Jazz, take a right. Loop through Beezers.”
I don’t know who Jazz is, but the strained and muffled voice of a woman answers from in front of me, and the vehicle lurches forward again. At least I have time to brace myself. “Safe from gunfire?”
“Oh, yes.” Musa sounds quite smug. “2006 H1 Hummer, full military spec, 2028 full solar-rechargeable pack engine, fore and aft turrets, ten-mill full armour plating, K-grade bullet-proof glass…”
As the Hummer hurtles through Beezers (whatever that is), the number of corners we take increases and the distance between them shortens. I’ve always hated driving in-Sim, it’s the series of sports which holds the least appeal for me. Being in a speeding vehicle realworld, as it rifles along at a suicidal pace, is far worse than Sol so I clutch my seatbelt straps in a death-grip.
“Tuck your head down,” Omar suggests, “and hold it between your arms.”
It helps a little, but the vehicle is swerving about like a stock-car. We turn a sharp corner, then squeal to a halt, throwing me forward. I scream as I’m jettisoned out of the seat only to be tugged back by the thick straps holding my shoulders down. If I hadn’t tucked my head in, it would likely have been ripped from my body. The noise of the engine alters, the roar echoing like we’re inside, and no longer beneath the solar roof. A mechanism screeches and growls behind us, and the engine sounds change again. I start to relax, but then we spring forward once more, moving first straight ahead and then down, spinning to the left in a tight downward spiral before the vehicle lurches for
ward again like a pinball fired from the spring. The echoes of our passage change every couple of seconds, I guess as we pass between repeating structures, but the metronomic sounds soon change as the vehicle turns again, this time spiralling up and to the right. By the time we screech to a halt in a cloud of stinking rubber, I have already arrived at the sole conclusion that vehicles like this are several times worse than in-Sim rollercoasters. I hate those things with a passion, and I never want to ride in either one ever again.
“We’re here,” Musa announces.
“Thank frack for that,” I whisper back. “I thought I was going to die.”
“She hates outside.”
Denver, ever the comedian, I think to myself.
-17-
“That was great,” I say, licking my fingers. The lunch Musa’s group served up was vastly different from my usual diet of oats, Pro-Bars and flatbreads. Musa sourced rye flour pittas from a local LED farm and stuffed them with camel yoghurt and spiced roasted mushrooms. It was a feast by anyone’s standards, and cumin still tingles my tongue.
“What did you expect, Ana?”
“I don’t know. Probars? Porridge, maybe?”
“Not for a VIP.” I can tell by his voice that Denver’s still eating those sweetened roasted nuts that Musa left out. My stomach tightens at the thought (I’ve already eaten three bowls of them, but they were so good).
“Who’s that?”
The laugh to my left could only be Mika, because it sounds like a booming cannon from a frigate. “You! How much are you spending?”
My cheeks burn as I grasp what he means; not once have I ever considered this as a business arrangement.
“Welcome, all,” announces a voice I immediately recognise from the accent. The tone is higher-pitched than in-Sim, strained almost, and thinner with fatigue.
“Samir?”
“Of course, my dear. Who else?” Samir’s footsteps are soft, partially muffled by the rug covering the concrete floor. I climb out of my seat and open my arms. I can vaguely sense where he is, but the carpet deadens all sounds. Samir scoops me into a tight hug, and as his beard tickles my cheek, I realise he’s not much taller than me. His loose clothing smells of cinnamon and camel’s milk and his beard of soap, but it’s not until I’m letting him go that I realise there is not a hint of outside on him.
“How’s the hacking going, Samir?”
“Not good. It’s impossible. We’ve not discovered a single way through the firewalls.”
“Why would he do this?” squeaks Nele. She’s sitting beside Denver, directly opposite me.
“Who?”
“G.O.D., of course, Ana. Who else?”
“Why ask me?” Fracking mouse.
“Who said I was? There are others here besides you. It’s not all about you and this fracking visor of yours.”
“Nele,” warns Denver. I recognise his tone instantly and snigger inwardly because it’s not aimed at me (for once).
“Frack her, Denvie. What about everyone else? The millions who’re gonna suffer when Sol goes?”
“What have they done for me?” I ask, unable to keep silent any longer.
Denver’s warned me about people so many times over the years, and what would happen if someone snerted me to Sol-Corp. Or killed me for my stuff. He’s right, I need to stay safe in my container. If Sol goes, everyone else can see at least. Without the upgrade, I’ll be totally and utterly fracked.
“Frack it. Stop it you two, will you?” Denver says, his annoyance echoing off distant walls.
I’m not surprised Denver’s frustrated, it must be the squeaking. Seething, I sit and reach out for my cup of tea, which has cooled in the chill air of the warehouse. It’s not as cold as the freezer room Musa took us to earlier though. The air inside nipped at my skin, and every part of my body shrank away to hide inside my clothing. Musa freezes food, but also keeps other products in there too, like vodka; which she’s kept for a celebration later, after we return from the engineer.
Musa’s voice cuts through the uncomfortable silence. “Ana, you are too young to know what it was like the last time without Sol.”
“Rebirth Day. It was like all my lights went out.”
“I don’t mean then, but when O’Drae turned off Sol.” Musa lets her words drift to silence, and I’m not sure if she’s finished. I hear something scraping, then a small crackle and a long breath. The stench of burning fills the air. Smoking, Denver calls it. It smells vile and prickles my nostrils. I inhale a little of the errant smoke cloud and it tickles my throat until I cough.
Musa pats my shoulder and stands, walking away and taking the foul air with her. She takes a couple of deep breaths as though preparing herself. “Perhaps without the Devastation, losing Sol would not have mattered so much. When O’Drae first released Sol, the sheer scale of it was a revelation, but there were plenty of other apps, games and fantasy worlds back then—we called them VR—and people thought Sol was just another sim. Sol used haptic tech that already existed, but what set it apart from the others was its commerciality, the potential for realworld trade, its own currency for in-Sim sales and a massive advertising market. Because Sol was set in a copy of the modern world, it felt more real than the others. Sol offered free haptics too—gloves, a visor, and controls—so it was available to everyone. Sol literally changed the way people used mass-entry software; it was the first completely free access platform, and it gave the corporates direct access to billions of people.”
“Sol was like the old internet, but on steroids.” The reverence in Samir’s voice is palpable.
“Is that when you started with, you know, what you do?”
Samir’s laugh is more of a cackle than a chesty bellow. “I was a coder long before Sol. Back when you needed a keyboard and a mouse, I wrote anti-virus software. Before that I was a hacker, a good one too.”
“I know, sweetie. Anyway,” Musa continues, “Sol became part of our everyday life. People relied on it for work. Corps advertised and released movies and programmes in-Sim only. Then they began filming in-Sim. Books, old films, newspapers all became available, hosted by Corps and the public. People bought everyday stuff through it, socialised, formed relationships...”
I try and picture realworld life in my mind, using the 2020 version of the Earth replicated in Sol as a base and overlaying it with the visions and commentary from the Oldearthers. Despite their descriptions, it’s still hard for me to imagine.
“Then, the Devastation happened.” Omar’s voice is scarcely a whisper.
“Yes, the Devastation, and people were dying everywhere. You can’t understand what it was like, not unless you lived through it.” Musa pauses, takes a long drink, and lights another cigarette. “Everyone has no doubt suffered the Remembrance Replay, but that doesn’t come close to the reality of what actually happened. It could never capture the depth of terror, the pain, and the death. At first, the incident was something that happened across the ocean, in America, but the effects started to spread across the Atlantic. Playing in Sol was no longer important, people were focused only on surviving. And everything got worse too…” Musa stops talking and the room falls silent.
“Ash clouds formed, temperatures fell, and acid rains destroyed crops and forests,” continues Samir. “People were desperate. O’Drae turned off Sol and focused his wealth and energy on building the Havens.”
“Why did they bring Sol back?” I’ve asked Hamilton this before, but he never answers.
“Sol had become ingrained into daily life, and it was more than mere entertainment. Without Sol, and with the clouds blocking satellite signals, it was almost impossible for people to communicate, other than through the limited voice comms still operating through Umbra headsets. People died trying to find somewhere safe.”
“With such grief, and the heavy pain of loss, people were getting lost in hopelessness,” Musa adds. “The Bleakness we called it, a form of depression, because thousands upon thousands simply gave up.”
&nbs
p; “Boundaries had broken, governments failed, and entire countries didn’t exist anymore,” Samir continues, like they are a double act. “It was like falling back to the dark ages, or the stone age or something. Pirates and bandits were everywhere, riots over food and fuel were commonplace and quickly grew deadly. People couldn’t cope; many felt that life was beyond futile.”
“Sol-Corp persuaded O’Drae to restore Sol and message everyone to draw them to the Havens, opening sharing of resources between areas.”
“Even though he was dying?” I ask.
“Indeed,” continues Samir. “And, as we now know, he brought it back for his son as well. After the Devastation, O’Drae bought every container he could find and shipped them to the Havens. They erected them in lines, then covered them with solar roofs to keep the weather out and harness the weak energy of the remaining sunlight. People migrated in swarms to the Havens, with the promise of water and food, and somewhere safe to live.”
As Samir stops talking, the thought of the Bleakness has enveloped the room in a blanket of sadness and despair, as the histories spoken by the Oldearther’s so often do. I know for certain that Denver’s mum, Rosemary, died of the Bleakness when Denver was just a small boy. I guess some of the others lost loved ones too. I guess I was too young to understand the changes in the world around me that so devastated sufferers of the Bleakness.
“It was bad, Ana. Trust me, you don’t want to live through that.”
“But Musa…”
“Don’t get me wrong, I understand why you want to do this, Ana, I do. And it’s wonderful we found Celal for you. But the world has bigger problems.”
That told me.
A message chimes through the silence, an incoming on a tablet.
“That’s him. Ana, are you ready to see?”
The commotion of numerous people preparing to move fills the cavernous space. I climb to my feet, but there’s little point in me moving, so I stand waiting impatiently while people shuffle around me. Above the clatter I can hear Musa and Denver arguing in harsh, clipped voices. Denver (ever the pessimist), wants to ban anyone bar SCAR accompanying me to the far side of the complex.