by Duncan Long
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, pulling my image backward like a super-zoom of a high-powered 3D camera. The snake telescoped away from me at an accelerating rate until I was racing away first from the home we’d been in, upward for a bird’s eye view of the beach the building sat near, and then into the sky over the city. My outward flight continued until I was looking down on the Florida peninsula and then hurtling away from the Earth itself. I cartwheeled into orbit, circling Earth twice, choking back tears at the sheer beauty of the planet below.
I traveled outward and the heat of the sun became almost unbearable. Abruptly it was cut off by the icy umbra of the Moon, and I settled on the lunar surface, cooling in the shadows on its powdery dirt. I blinked in the sunlight and realized I was inside a colony dome, somewhere in the future, pacing across a green and blue sward. The Earth’s crescent was barely visible through the thick synthetic diamond covering that held a life-giving bubble of air in place.
Struggling to propel myself in the weak gravity, I bounced across the walkway toward the rent-a-skimmer shop, glancing at the antique digital watch I now wore, uncertain even what year it was, let alone the time. The watch gave me few clues other than that the time was now eight o’clock. Earth time? Morning or evening?
I loped toward a booth where a clerkbot’s face blurred, reconfiguring into a mirror image of my own face. It rotated its eyes toward me and raised mechanical eyebrows into an obvious question that made speech unnecessary until it learned what language I would be speaking.
“I need a single passenger skimmer,” I said, the words seeming to come from nowhere. I realized I must be inside another game. “Make that a two-seater,” I added as an afterthought that was not my own. Programmed memories warned that whoever had called me to the Moon might be planning on going someplace other than our arranged meeting place. A two-seater would allow them to ride with me.
A door on the building behind the clerk flashed open, revealing a sleek chrome skimmer that bobbed in the sunlight, looking like a teardrop of mercury. “That will be thirty creds for the first day, plus one cred per kilometer. You must leave a six-hundred-cred deposit.”
Six hundred creds seemed a little steep, but I didn’t really care. It was only a game. Besides, I didn’t want to waste time haggling. The bot opened the IR channel on its neck and I exposed my cred bracelet to the reader, letting the machine place the charge on my account.
“Thank you,” the bot said after sending back an e-invoice to my bracelet, which beeped, letting me know the transaction was complete. “Enjoy your visit.” The mechanical’s face became a blur as it swiveled toward its next customer who waited behind me. Then the machine’s face congealed into a replica of the woman who stepped to the counter.
I examined the skimmer for a moment and then climbed in. The rental which purred to life. “Where can I take you?” it asked.
I glanced at the lunar map on the dashboard, searched for my location, and then touched a coordinate on the screen.
“Hill of the Brave,” the skimmer purred. “No need to use coordinates for well-known land marks. Simply tell me and I can take you there. Ready?”
I nodded, forgetting that the machine might not actually see me. But the vehicle seemed to read my intent, and a shoulder harness wrapped itself around me as the skimmer accelerated and rose upward. Moments later air whistled across the windscreen.
“Do you mind the breeze,” the skimmer asked. “I can raise the roof.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
The skimmer guided itself over the grassy meadow, flitting over hedges of recomb fruit plants. I found myself grinning, enjoying the sense of freedom afforded when one was unbound by pavement.
After a few minutes, the vehicle slowed and glided toward the Hill of the Brave, circling along the rim of the huge crater encompassing the famous memorial.
I glanced at my watch. Four minutes to spare. I studied the quicksilver vegetation that wriggled at the entrance, wondering if the whole meeting was a trap or some elaborately unfunny hoax.
“Wait here,” I told the skimmer as it slowed to a stop. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I’ll await your return.”
There were no other vehicles at the site. Had I beat the person making the call to this meeting place? Most likely not. Whoever had called with the clue had probably already been in position when they’d made the call. At any rate there were no tourists, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. Everyone shies away from the Hill of the Brave these days. Patriotism had lost its popularity now that there hadn’t been a war for a decade or so. People took their hard-won freedoms for granted.
In the weak gravity I half jumped, half paced up the last few yards toward the two-meter gap in the crater wall that served as a natural entrance. The morning breeze, created as the sun heated the air in the dome, swept across the silver flowers of vines clinging to the crater’s walls; the air moving across the metallic leaves created a low moaning that was disturbing yet as beautiful as the flowers’ scent was fragrant.
As I entered the cemetery, I read the ancient placard in front of me, “Remember those who died that you might be free.” I bowed my head for a moment, then slowly half-walked, half-bounced on into the memorial where life-like androids stood, each a replica of the hero buried beneath it. The vast army of statues waited in the sunlight with infinite patience, ready to tell their stories to anyone who stopped and asked.
Where is the man who called? I mused, momentarily distracted by the movement of a garden bot whose sharp blades edged around the feet of a hero. I crossed to the bot. “Excuse me, have you seen anyone in here today,” I asked it.
It stopped its work and swiveled toward me. “A few minutes ago. That way,” it pointed with its hedge clippers.
I strolled in the direction indicated, lost in thought when I spied someone. A tall, thin man stood, his orange suit showing in sharp contrast to the greenish-gold dress uniforms of the androids he was among. He waved when he spotted me. I hopped toward him in the low gravity, cutting the distance between us with just four leaps.
As I neared him, I awkwardly slowed myself to a stop, cautiously keeping a little space between myself and the stranger. I nodded toward him and waited.
“I need your help,” he said. “No one will believe me — and I don’t trust the AIs. Here’s the information.”
I took the disk he extended toward me.
“Someone accessed my computer,” he continued. “I never saw anyone. But they failed to change the tracking logs, so I can tell someone had penetrated the system.”
“Any idea who?”
The man’s eyes darted up and down the rows of androids around me, as if he were looking for someone. “I’m not sure, but —”
The electrical crash of an energy beam cut short his sentence with its thunder. In an instant the stranger’s face and shoulders vanished in a volcano of boiling blood and steam, splattering onto the androids standing motionless next to him.
I cowered back, nausea clawing at my throat, my eyes seemed riveted to the headless body that stood for a moment, then crumpled and sank in slow motion toward the lunar floor. In a fraction of a second, fear pushed the sick feeling away and my reflexes took over. I drew a small needle pistol from its harness inside my jacket and straightened. My Earth-conditioned mind forgot the weak lunar gravity; my sudden movement propelled me upward, into the air where I seemed to hang for awkward moments before flipping backward over a row of androids.
I gritted my teeth as a crackle of energy blazed past me, missing my scalp by only inches, and coming so close I could taste the ionized air. After an eternity my toes touched the surface and I clawed a handhold on the uniform of the android nearest me and pulled myself to the ground, wheeling in an effort to see my assailant. I saw nothing as I dropped into a crouch, letting the weak gravity pull me down into the carpet of grass.
I waited and listened.
There was nothing but the rustle of the breeze and the moaning of distant flowers.
Then movement. I turned and watched the life-like statues. Had one moved? I studied it. No, only your imagination. Or was it?
Without warning, a third bolt crashed against the android next to me, burning it in half. Again crouching, I studied the burn pattern on the mechanism.
From the right, I decided. I leaped into the aisle of figures, making a floating dive behind the next column of androids. Another beam of raw light cracked through the area where I’d been squatting. I broke into a bouncing run toward the shooter, grabbing handholds on the uniforms of the androids I passed to compensate for my awkward movements, and zigzagging from one row of androids to the next in an effort to present less of a target.
Another android burst into flame behind me as a beam flickered over it. Close. I dropped and crawled in a new direction for thirty feet. Then I wheeled around, rose, and jumped in the direction I’d been going before.
If I can just get in close, I might have a chance. Seeing a brilliant muzzle flash ahead of me, I dropped down for a breathless moment.
There was the distant crackling of an android hit by the beam. But it was several rows away from me. The shooter must have lost track of me and was now firing blindly. After several more random shots from the energy weapon, the firing stopped.
I waited, heart pounding in my ears. Someone was cautiously moving among the androids in front of me. Coming toward me.
I forced myself not to bolt like a scared rabbit.
The soft foot treads were almost to me. “Ralph, I don’t know how you called me into this game,” Huntington’s voice called. “But you’re going to pay for your impudence.” I tightened my hold on my pistol, and then jumped into the aisle, clamping down on the trigger as I aimed. But no one was there. With no real target presented to it, the automatic targeting of the pistol prevented it from discharging. I released the trigger, again struggling with the low gravity as I wobbled into a standing crouch.
Where’s Huntington?
Then I perceived a form ahead of me, stepping between the rows of androids. Dressed like an android, his only distinguishing departure from the figures were protective goggles and a rifle-like blaster.
I aimed in his direction and clamped down on the trigger of my pistol. The gun’s infrared sight locked on instantly, directing a burst of needles toward the assassin even as he realized I was firing. He brought up his energy rifle as the stream of projectiles I’d sent knocked off chunks of plastic and metal from the armor he wore under the green uniform.
I jumped to the right. A beam crackled past me. Wheeling in the air, I landed on my feet and again fired at my opponent, then leaped to avoid his next shot. While I danced about, my antagonist stood rooted in place, nearly as motionless as the androids around him.
He was an easy target but dressed in armor. I knew I’d hit him with at least two salvos. Yet he appeared uninjured and remained so even after several more volleys from my needle gun hissed his way.
Desperate, I ignored the flash of energy past my skull and carefully lined up the pistol with my target, fighting to keep control of my shaking hands. The sight locked on and I emptied my gun at my opponent.
This time the projectiles had an affect. A large chunk of “skin” came off his face, exposing the steel plate beneath it.
With alarm, I realized Huntington was no longer human. The robot I faced shifted its weapon, drawing a bead on me as I leaped aside, colliding with an android that lay in my path.
I fell slowly in the lunar gravity, tumbling at the feet of the android I’d smashed into. I ended sprawled on the path, presenting myself as an easy target. I struggled to my feet, teeth clinched for the inevitable kill shot from the beam weapon.
Instead, nothing happened. I regained my balance and turned toward the mechanical whose rifle remained aimed right at me. The machine remained frozen in spot, staring at me with a lifeless eye.
I cautiously retreated behind a nearby android. Still nothing happened. Screwing up my courage, I peeped from behind the android. The killing machine stood as motionless as before.
Keeping out of sight, I circled around until I stood behind the robot that had tried to kill me, creeping forward until I was within six feet of it, my needle gun aligned on the back of its head. On an impulse, I gave the machine a push. It slowly toppled over as if in slow motion, bouncing several times in the weak gravity as it came to the end of its arch, lifeless and inert.
I kicked the weapon out of its grasp and stared a moment at the fallen foe whose face and one eye had been blasted apart, creating a caricature of the man I knew as Huntington. Oddly he didn’t do anything to come back to life as he had in all the games before. Something had changed.
The air was full of smoke from a nearby smoldering android and all was quiet save for the distant singing flowers. I felt tired and my legs were strangely cramped.
I kicked with both legs, and sat up, wide awake in the tractor making its way through the Antarctic ice.
“Bad dream?” Smeel asked from behind the wheel, apparently forgetting his promise not to talk.
“Yeah, guess so.”
“This weather inspires bad dreams. Sometimes I think all the bad dreams from the north blow down here and freeze around the pole, waiting to seep into your brain when you sleep.”
I shuddered at his idea. “How much farther?”
“Almost back.”
“Great,” I said. I wondered if I really had just experienced a bad dream or if Huntington and I were somehow linked? Where did my dreams end and reality begin these days?
I was confused and frustrated. I felt like lying down and playing dead. I probably would have done just that a few days before. But something had changed and now I refused to give up. If Huntington was going to ruin my life and even rob me of my sleep and dreams, I was going to at least leave him with a black eye. If I died, at least I’d go down like a man, rather than a whipped dog with its tail between its legs.
Or at least that was what I hoped.
Chapter 27
Ralph Crocker
I raced time. The Doze-Less tablets no longer helped, and the moment I slowed down to rest, the dreams returned. I found myself lost in worlds that might have been designed by M. C. Escher had he worked in five dimensions; I wandered through imaginings that would have made Pablo Picasso weep; I languished in landscapes inspired by a psychotic who loved the work of Salvador Dali. Often I could pull myself out of these places, twitching awake before I had to battle against the monstrosities that roamed these dreamscapes. Occasionally I found myself pitted against variations on the theme of Huntington. In other episodes he seemed absent. Always I warred to maintain sanity and preserve my life.
I still had no idea what portion of these visions was illusion and what part might be some sort of reality. I did know I could not fight off deep and dangerous sleep much longer. Soon the flesh would be seduced by the tempter in the garden of sleep.
After using my hotel room’s computer to track down the physical position that corresponded to the next IP link in Huntington’s relay system, I checked out of my hotel and bought a ticket for Miami. I left Antarctica via shuttle and arrived without incident at Miami International; from there I took a roboplane across the Caribbean Unitico mainland to New Sarasota, nearly exhausting the last of the small fortune I’d collected in unmarked e-cash.
The last of my wealth went toward the purchase of a fake ID and car rental for what I hoped would be the last leg of my journey from New Sarasota airport.
I drove outside the New Sarasota city limits, through the vast stretch of grassland and scrub brush bathed by an orange sunset. Cattle — the real thing, not plastic imitations — meandered through pastures, each cow followed by an entourage of tall, white cattle egrets who matter-of-factly gobbled up the insects disturbed by the passing cattle.
I fought to keep my eyes open as I continued driving. The wilderness gradu
ally gave way to tourist traps and small business buildings as nightfall approached. I entered the southern end of the town that, along with the ancient Ringling estates, had somehow survived the nuclear blast that had leveled most of the northern part of town nearly a century before. Now the whole area was a historical preservation zone, restored using old Goggle map images to what the experts thought the area must have been like before it was nuked. That translated into very expensive real estate, albeit with prices offset somewhat due to radioactive residue.
Yawning, I continued south, checking the GPS navigator before turning west down the John Ringling Causeway to Lido Key. Soon I was circling the drive that had been cross-referenced to Huntington’s physical address — most likely another relay house. Only a streetlight shimmering here and there lit the baked night.
The generally modest sleeping homes were interspersed by an occasional uninvited McMansion that hogged its lot. I slowed in front of the two story, flamingo pink stucco house, that was my target, driving past the wrought-iron fence to park beneath a giant palm tree that seemed draped in the indigo sky.
After checking to be sure no one was watching, I exited the car and searched the rusty fence for visible sensors. Seeing none, I vaulted over the wrought iron barrier into the Spanish moss covered jungle beyond.
Scrambling through the palmettos and scrub pine, I heard the low hum of an air-conditioning unit singing counterpoint to crickets and a lone tree frog. The air conditioner’s a good sign. Huntington didn’t seem like someone that would waste money cooling an empty house. Maybe I was finally going to meet him flesh-to-flesh.
Since most people concentrate their defenses on the front door instead of where the devices should be, on the side entrances and windows, I avoided the wide front porch and instead scooted along the mock orange bushes to a side window where I extracted an infrared/ultrasonic detector from my jacket and scanned my potential entrance.