Heir of G.O'D. Revelations

by Harper Maze

  Where did they get those weapons? And why use them now? This is what I keep asking myself repeatedly.

  I grab my underwear and clean clothes (a fresh haptic suit, because other than my one set of outside clothes, they’re all I own), and stumble my way from my cot to the bathroom. My bicep twinges uncomfortably when I try to scrub or raise it above my head, so I wash as best I can, then stand in the shower until the water goes cold. After drying myself and tugging on the haptic suit I don’t feel much better, but at least I smell clean. I step cautiously to the area where I think my visor landed yesterday, and shuffle forward, sweeping my foot back and forth until my toes kick it. I pick it up, hook myself in and place it on my fridge. I can sense the visor there, as though it’s staring at me, taunting me. In my mind, it’s like some inanimate object suddenly come to life to hurt me; my visor has become “Chucky” Ray from the classic horror movie Child’s Play.

  At some point, I succumb to exhaustion until I’m abruptly awoken from my nap by the entrance alarm, and a frantic burst of banging on my container door.

  “Ana, are you in there?”

  I don’t answer, but I do relent. “Door command: Unlock.”

  “Thank the Heir,” Denver almost screams, as he charges into the container. “You haven’t answered any messages.” The door swishes shut behind him, cutting off the outside stench. “Wait, you’re not wearing your visor?”

  “No. I’m not going back.”

  “What the frack is wrong with you?”

  “Samir, he…”

  “He got shot? Your team still placed in the top hundred.”

  “I don’t care about that,” I spit back, my voice a mix of venom and fear. “The frackers had weapons that…” I grunt in exasperation with myself, then realise I’m rubbing my arm again. The pain has faded to a dull ache now, but it still twinges. The memory of that weapon, and the excruciating pain when I was shot lingers like a drunk Hamilton on Rebirth Day. “They hurt, Denver.”

  “You’re not making any sense.” He paces over, and I can feel him kneeling on the floor beside my rig. “Who? What weapons?”

  He grasps my hands in his, and I realise I’m shaking. His hands are warm and strong and comforting. “COGOD. They had these weapons that were bugged somehow. Shuzo… My arm…” I try to say more, but my voice catches in the back of my throat.

  “You must be imagining things. When I couldn’t reach you last night, I checked the footage. You were shot in your arm, but it was Zhong not Shuzo, and she used her normal bow.”

  “You don’t understand. Samir…”

  “Shuzo shot Samir with his usual gun; the same one he always uses. I know because it was me who took him out. I looted it, figured you might like it as a trophy or something. Only, when I tried to find you last night to give it to you, you weren’t in-Sim. I got worried, and then you wouldn’t answer your door…” He lets go of my hands and stands up. “I know what will fix it. Don’t move.”

  A few minutes later, a comforting mug of chocolate melted in warm camel’s milk nestles in my hands, hot enough that a tasty skin keeps forming on the top. Denver went one step further and decadently grated some raw chocolate on top too.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I lie, a sad smile dancing on my lips.

  “I think it’s stress, Ana.”

  “What is?”

  “The way you keep rubbing your arm, the things you think you saw. It’s the pressure of trying to make millions of $uns for your visor.”

  “You weren’t there, Denver.”

  “No, but I saw it. We watched the footage. You were right, COGOD were targeting you. Your Dastarding deffo fracked them off. It’s how we managed to get behind them. They had their usual weapons though.”

  “But…”

  “Come, watch for yourself.”

  The mere thought of going back into Sol has me shaking again, droplets of cold sweat beading on my skin. I drain the last of my drink, savouring the last few precious drops. Then a memory blazes in my mind, of Shuzo raising his gun at me in the cluster-zone. Musa waved my concerns away, but what if that weapon works outside of the Arena? With just the thought of that potential new reality, a wail escapes my mouth, heart-wrenching even to my ears. If my arm hurts so much after a glancing blow, what would a black-screen shot feel like? “It’s not safe, Denver.”

  “Tell you what. Port home and then come to me. To my house. I’ll unlock the portal for you. Agreed?”

  My hands tremble, and my stomach lurches in trepidation. But, can I cope with the alternative, of never going back? I ask myself. There are only a few days left, I might never get the opportunity to see inside Sol again. Am I overreacting?

  “Fine.”

  “Great, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Denver hands me my visor, and I grip it like it’s a coiled viper. To distract myself, I count his footsteps as he scurries to his rig and hooks up. “I unlocked it.”

  I pause for a few heartbeats before pulling on my visor; it neglects to stab, electrocute, shock or shoot me. So, I lift the visor to my face, take a deep breath, and fix it in its familiar place. Then I do something that I’ve never had to do before; I reach up and press the little button on the left rim, the one that allows me to Safe Start. Instead of appearing where I logged out, in the cluster-zone of Callisto, I emerge in the lobby of my apartment. My system’s showing hundreds of new messages, but I ignore them all, pausing only to visit my safe and exchange a few items; I swap my usual combat fatigues for the best Kevlar armour I own–even though it has little use outside of Arenas–and store the loot to sell later (not that there’s much point to Sol-Bay anymore).

  Avoiding my roof entirely, I climb the stairs up through my apartment to the port. It’s a slower route, but it means I can avoid being out in the open where a COGOD sniper might be waiting. After yesterday, I worry that anything is possible now, even the use of weapons outside of Arenas. I select the preloaded ID for Denver’s port in the orangery of his French chateau, taking a little comfort from knowing that his port is at least inside.

  “There you are,” Denver announces, stepping out from the hallway. His avatar hugs my avatar – which would normally be odd as we’re sitting about three metres apart, but this time I grip his shoulders for longer than I should. He steps back, a sheepish grin on his face. “When was the last time you were here?”

  “Star Wars Day.”

  Someone calculated that the original Star Wars Day, the fourth of a month called May, translated to Saturday, 13th Kaspersky on the Sol calendar. The day became a mass festival as survivors the world over clung to the vestiges of anything familiar. Parties showing all nine of the core films, plus a selection of Disney’s three prequels and the numerous spin-offs, became an international tradition. The festival has expanded further over the years, any true geek still watches at least the nine original movies on what was May the fourth.

  “That long ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got to see my new toy!”

  “I thought we were going to watch the footage.” I don’t feel the slightest bit safe, even walking around Denver’s private and supposedly protected R3al 3state.

  “There are screens where we’re going. Come on…”

  Denver is uncharacteristically cheerful and trots ahead, leading me through the opulent corridors adorned with his Arena trophies, each standing in an alcove atop a marble pedestal. Images of his victories and favourite moments line the white panelled walls, replicated in the reflective sheen of the polished wooden flooring. I’ve walked around some of the public chateaux, where sculptures, clocks, vases and the like are displayed on extravagant plinths, and tapestries and reproductions of famous artworks adorn the walls. Denver’s place has the classic feel of them, but he’s updated the look to match his own inimitable style. He leaps and slides down the bannister, rushing to the cellar door. I catch up with him tapping his foot impatiently as he waits at the door to the winery. The walls down here have da
rkened with age and years of coal dust. The floor is formed from massive flagstones, too wide to jump across, and the ceiling is constructed of arched brick – a little like a Victorian sewer.

  With a flourish, he swings open the double doors and reveals a massive space which is superficially white, but boasts such a colourful assortment of paraphernalia that it hurts my eyes. In the centre of the room is a selection of gaming tables – snooker, billiards, air hockey, foosball and both American and English pool. “I’ve played some of these before,” I announce, somewhat bemused by his childish excitement.

  “Not like this one!” He bounces towards the American pool table. “It’s made to look like glass. And they used the Marksmanship range code to replicate realworld play.”

  Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. “Really?”

  “Yeah. We’re going to play. I haven’t even tried it myself yet.”

  “When did you get it?”

  “A few months back. Birthday gift, from Dad. Which reminds me,” he continues, swiping at his menus before flipping three shimmering transparent byte-balls to me. They land in my avatar’s hand, one resting on my upturned palm whilst the other two rotate in small orbits above.

  “Shuzo’s gun?” I ask, peering at the minimised rifle floating inside the packet.

  “Yeah. I said I looted it. I thought you might like it as a trophy or something.”

  I open the packet and gaze at the Barrett spinning hypnotically inside. There’s no sign of the silver sheen. “Thank you for this,” I say, a genuine smile on my face.

  “I knew you’d want it. That fracker…”

  “Oh, I do!” I want it, but not for the reason Denver thinks. Samir and his team will want to examine it. I swipe the packet closed, whisper a message to Samir and send it off. While Denver fires up the menu to his cinema screen, I check the second of the packets. It’s a food voucher, not quite as good as the one I sold, but I can cash it in for six months of Pro-Bars. I feel a harness of constricting tension slip off at the realisation that, even if the worst happens, I will be able to eat for a short while. “Thanks, Denver, it’s awesome!” I say, touched with emotion at the gesture.

  “Knew you’d love it. Please, don’t sell this one.”

  “I won’t.” I promise. I still regret selling the last one.

  “Good. Ah, here it is. Watch.”

  The massive screen, which takes up the entire wall on the left side of the room, fires to life showing the Arena in full colour. It takes me a few seconds to appreciate that the sweep of dunes, bushes and reeds is the peninsula we used to make our last stand against COGOD. From above, the sweep of the camera reveals how narrow the landmass was, and how well we chose. In a normal Arena, we might have been able to defend that spot for some time. However, with all those COGOD frackers closing in, we were always going to lose. Zhong and her Mongols attack what appears to be a random area. As I watch, my blanket collapses under the assault of barbed arrows. It dawns on me that I didn’t even check to see what Shuzo looted from me, but I would put money on it being the blanket. The COGOD group surges forward, recurve bows twanging unrealistically fast.

  “That’s new,” Denver announces, watching them.

  “They’re using the gloves.”

  “I’ve never seen them do that before. Wait, the Church worked it out from you!” The excitement I hear in his voice is palpable, how this man loves solving puzzles! “They watched the footage of you slaughtering them in the Rumble.”

  The realisation that I showed those fracking COGOD fidiots the gloves exploit hits me like a dull thump. There may only be a few days left of Sol, but in reality I’m responsible for ruining the last few sacred Arenas. I’m so angry with myself. I still doubt that I was the first person to discover the exploit (because I’m not that ingenious), but COGOD and the others have been tracking me and watching me so closely following my infamous Dastarding fight with them in the Rumble, that the exploit was bound to get out there. Worse, it’s so simple to execute that it’s open to anyone who can work out how I did it, and can afford the gloves (which probably cost next to nothing now anyway). I manage to refocus on the screen just as my avatar falls back from the impact of the arrow.

  “Control: Pause image. Control: Rewind image ten seconds. Control: Play image at quarter speed,” I instruct, moving closer to the screen. The picture returns to the point where the blanket suffers the storm of arrows. Zhong leads her team closer, draws her bow and the arrow that struck me in the arm takes flight. “Control: Pause image.” Frozen in time, I can see the recurve horse-archer bow in minuscule detail from the grains in the wood, the tight leather wrapping on the handle, to the loose threads on the taut string. There’s not a single glimmer of the silver sheen that I saw before the fight. According to Samir, though, Zhong had a bugged weapon too. “Control: Play image at quarter speed.” At the slower velocity I can follow the flight of the arrow as it tracks in an arc above the dunes, then curves down to strike me in the arm. On-screen, the reaction of my avatar is the same as though I’d just taken a standard blow on my haptic sleeve. But I remember the pain, and it was far worse – like if Denver had punched me hard on the arm realworld.

  My avatar’s shoulder flails backwards as she falls to her knees, dropping her bow to the ground. At the slower replay framerate my yell sounds deeper and slower, like a bloated underwater beast. Zhong looks down as her chest explodes in a fireball, courtesy of Musa, and the team freeze in place then fade out together.

  Samir appears in the frame, surging in from the left. Behind him, rising from the bushes in painfully-slow slow motion, Shuzo appears. Expressionless, the COGOD fracker draws his weapon–the same one Denver gave to me only minutes ago–and fires at my prone figure. The bullet explodes from the rifle and hurtles towards me, frighteningly fast, even in slow motion. Samir stumbles between me and the bullet, and it strikes him in the back. “Control: Pause image.” Samir freezes, right at the point of black-screening. His face is easy to read; fear, shock and pain. Real, palpable pain.

  I play the sequence three more times at varying speeds, and even try a different camera angle, but there’s no hint of anything being amiss, no clue at all as to the nature of his weapon. I freeze the screen. Shuzo has just watched Samir get shot. I zoom in on his face, and his expression is so easy to read; the spiteful smile tells me that he takes pleasure in knowing that his bugged weapon worked, but I can also see a trace of frustration. Now I know that bullet was meant for me.

  Without a heartbeat’s delay, I fire up my trade menus and cancel the deal with Nyffenegger. I’m so desperate to sever all contact with COGOD that I don’t even bother raising an appeal for a refund. In effect, I just gambled and lost a million $uns. I delete every single message that’s from a COGOD fidiot, including all the messages in my junk folder that mention the Rumble, and then I clear out anything that’s not from someone on my contacts list. The only mails that I swipe to save for later are Corps’ trade messages, just in case they contain something useful like food or power discounts. Eventually, I’m left with under a page of messages from people I know. There’s nothing from Musa, Samir or their people. I do what I should have done last night, or at least when I awoke this morning, and swipe a message to Musa asking for an update on Samir, and to make sure that she’s okay too. Then I close the message system and turn off all alerts.

  The realisation that my quest is over, and the knowledge that once Sol ends, I’ll be left in darkness, creeps up on me. I struggle to breathe like I’m drowning. I can’t find the words to fully describe the feelings churning around inside of me. It’s not fear, not even emptiness, but more like resignation. And carelessness too, because there’s nothing left for me to lose. I will do the Bounty Hunter Invitational later, then be dragged to Hamilton’s for the replay, but for now it’s American pool.

  The triangle is on a hook beneath the table, and I throw it on the transparent baize and fill it with balls. Denver takes a cue from the rack, chalks the tip, and mov
es to the far end to break. The crack of the cue-ball striking the rack reverberates in the cellar space. The balls zoom around the table in a perfect representation of realworld physics. He pots a stripe and lines up another, then another, followed by another. I amuse myself by lying beneath the table and watching the balls roll around above me like they’re suspended in space. Denver’s face is distorted by the glass somewhat, but he’s carefree and happy.

  Perhaps I’m wrong?

  By the time it’s my turn, he only has two balls and the black left. The easiest is the yellow one-ball, so I move to stand behind the white, reach my left hand forward realworld and bend my fingers to make a bridge. I draw my right hand back and then push forward in some jerky, uncoordinated sweep, sending the white into a completely different part of the table. “Fracking game. Hey, stop laughing!”

  Eight games, and a whole barrage of swearing later, I manage to hit and pot the ball I’m aiming for. It’s literally the pinnacle of my cue sports career (one of the activities I’m most woeful at). I’m bad enough at normal in-Sim pool, but this enhanced version, with realworld-realistic physics, only magnifies my deficiencies.

  “You never opened the last gift, Ana,” Denver suddenly announces.

  I’m so wrapped up in my issues, and so determined to forget them by proving that I would likely lose at pool to a llama, that I realise I’ve been neglecting my friend duties. I can feel my cheeks glow in shame. “Sorry, Denver. How did you do yesterday?”

  “In Team? Thought you’d never ask.” He crouches a little and claps his thighs in a drum-roll. “We, Team SCAR, finished… Numero Uno!” A wide grin splits his face, and he performs his ‘happy dance’ (which he ripped from an old video game we used to play).

  “Wow. Grats, Denver!” Up until a few minutes ago, I’d have been checking the bets I laid on SCAR as well as us, counting my winnings and calculating my new $uns balance. But I cancelled the Nyffenegger trade so it seems a little pointless now.