“Token here. What are we supposed to do?”
As if in response, a mission brief appeared in Vango’s HUD window. It directed him to lead his formation along certain routes, avoid threats, and to come within fifty meters of the designated targets. Those targets turned out to be Meme Destroyers, the enemy’s largest ship class, living spheres two to three thousand meters in diameter and massing billions of tons.
Fifty meters might as well be ramming.
“Do you all have the mission brief?” Vango asked.
Terse affirmatives told him they saw it. “What’s the point?” asked Stevie. “Get close to Destroyers?”
“Obviously there’s a program of increasingly difficult missions, like a tutorial. Since this is the first one where we can see and talk to each other in the VR field, let’s cooperate and graduate to the next one and I’m sure we’ll see. That’s the point.”
No one grumbled further, which heartened Vango. This might all be a game, but it felt like mission prep. As he’d taken the reins of leadership, he’d do the best he could.
He wondered briefly if this whole thing was a leadership test for him alone, using simulacra of people he’d known. If so, he resolved to pass with flying colors.
“All right, everyone report go for launch.” When they’d done so, Vango gave a three-count and kicked his ship up off the asteroid. He swiveled his point of view backward and saw an ejection tube flush with the surface. All around him rose other craft like unadorned missiles.
Zooming his viewpoint in close, something that came naturally when fighting in VR space, he saw his comrades’ ships still appeared as blank cylinders, tapered at the nose and blunt at the tail. No weapons, sensors or other fittings could be seen. A suggestion of fusion exhaust showed near their sterns, but when they adjusted course, no jets of any kind spurted. It was as if the sim controllers were deliberately suppressing any clue as to the real nature of these attack craft.
On the fly, Vango assigned each of his pilots roles and positions within a hierarchy, based on his memories of the people involved, dividing the twenty-four into six four-ships. He took Stevie, Token and Lock with him.
He told each flight to make its own way toward the objectives. They didn’t get far. By halfway in, everyone had been destroyed. As the pilots died, they respawned back in the launch tubes, but were not allowed to begin again until everyone else had returned and Vango gave the word.
“How are we supposed to get there with no weapons to defend ourselves?” Stevie complained. “This is bullshit!”
“We have to figure out a way to at least get one ship into the objective zone,” said Token. “We’ll need to assign interceptors and decoys to sacrifice their ships. We have our suicide bombs.”
“That’s bullshit too,” Stevie said. “That’s not the way we’d really fight. Highly trained pilots don’t throw themselves away.”
Vango said, “They do if it’s important enough. Besides, this is a low-grade sim. If they wanted us to treat it as real, they’d make it realistic in all aspects. Instead, this is like a kid’s game where the goal is simply to beat the level and advance to the next. So we go with Token’s idea. This next iteration, our objective is for one of us to complete the mission. After that, we can work on getting more there.”
It took nine attempts, but with a series of wild maneuvers, eventually Vango made it through to break the fifty-meter range. Everyone else got knocked out, but they all still cheered. He felt as if he’d used them up as they decoyed and intercepted threats for him, but knowing it was a game, he was able to think like a football team captain rather than a flight leader. His only objective was to get the ball to the goal, and the ball was himself.
Vango said, “Great job, team. Now you see it can be beaten. This time let’s get more people across the line.”
His confidence quickly faded, however, as the next mission ramped up its difficulty. He abandoned all thought of multiple wins and settled for trying to get himself there again. This time it took five attempts, and he ended up ramming the Destroyer and killing his ship.
But he won, according to the simulator.
“This really is a game,” Vango said to his people. “I didn’t notice at first, but now I realize the success parameters didn’t say anyone had to survive. We only have to cross the fifty-meter line, and that’s a whole lot easier if we ram them at the end.”
“Then I bet we can get several through,” Token replied. The others agreed, and as it became clear there was no penalty for dying in the process, they waxed enthusiastic, proposing new and unconventional tactics to “win the game.”
They won the game. In fact, three rammed the objective. Crossing the fifty-meter line seemed incidental.
“We’re getting good at this,” Stevie cried.
But hazards increased once more.
“They aren’t letting us taste the fruits of our victory,” Vango announced, “but we’re improving by leaps and bounds. At some point there will be a new kind of challenge, not merely a harder one. Keep at it.”
The day ended before the objective changed, though the difficulty increased four more levels. Every time Vango thought they had it licked and they got most of the ships across the goal line, it became tougher.
In what turned out to be the day’s final run, Vango’s consciousness faded as he alone crossed the fifty-meter mark.
This morning, Vango felt something had changed. As he opened his eyes, he noticed the ceiling seemed grainy, with much greater detail than before. He followed the join where it met the wall and noticed a smudge, and then a cobweb.
Rolling abruptly out of bed, he stared at the imperfection as if it were the world’s most wonderful sight. Tearing his eyes away, he examined the room and found many such details, though the basic layout remained the same, with the addition of a door.
Opening it, he found a bathroom, with toilet, shower, soap and other supplies. He suddenly he realized he had to pee. The relief was nearly overwhelming, both psychological and physical. Had he finally been released from the virtuality?
He examined his hands, then the rest of his body, finding real, variable flesh, skin and hair, where before it had been minimalist and plastic, like a mannequin. Finding tweezers in a drawer, he stabbed himself in the forearm and drew blood from the tiny wound, blood which glistened for a moment before he smeared it to clotting. Then he sucked on his finger, smelling and tasting the iron.
Real. It was real.
Or a high-resolution sim, he told himself. Don’t get your hopes up too high. This may be simply one more test.
Showering and dressing hurriedly, he found others in the hallway already talking earnestly. Some slapped back and spoke joyously, loudly. Others seemed intent on examining everything up close. He saw Token take down one of the pictures on the wall and look behind it, touching the hook that had held it there.
Arms grabbed his waist from behind and he turned to find Stevie wrapping herself around him. And this time, the missing desire surged inside him.
“Is that a pickle in your pocket, or are you glad to see me?” she said.
Vango grinned. “Very glad to see you.” He leaned down to kiss her, hard.
“Break it up, you two,” Lock said from behind them. “How do we know this is real?”
“Aren’t you the buzz kill,” Butler said, coming up to bump the tall woman with his shoulder. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” she snapped.
“Why?”
“Because…” Lock trailed off. “It just does.”
Vango disengaged from Stevie. “How can we know?”
Lock frowned. “We can test the limits of this virtuality, if there is one. If we find things that make no sense in the real world, we know we’re still inside.”
“And if not, we’re still not sure.” Vango shrugged and raised his voice. “Listen up, people. Spread out and try doors. Find windows or exits or…something, anything that proves we are—or aren’t—still in
side a simulation.”
Five minutes of exploration were all it took to return the verdict: not real. No windows had appeared in their rooms. No exits could be found. And the room at the end of the hallway that had until now contained the flight simulators…
“Not what I expected,” Vango said as the others ushered him into a room grown large, a hall now overflowing with the trappings of a feast. High ceilings supported chandeliers, and a banquet had appeared on one long heavy polished wooden table. Linen tablecloths and napkins set off silver flatware, crystal goblets and porcelain plates. Bottles of wine, beer and liquor vied for space with whole roast fowl, haunches of beef, pork and lamb, and mounds of side dishes. Off to the side he saw a dance floor outfitted with a music system. A robotic bar stood nearby.
“It’s a party!” Stevie said. “And look what I found!”
Vango turned and saw that she was now dressed in a hot red number that showed a lot of skin and seemed to be supported by sheer willpower. Matching heels and clutch, plus a diamond necklace and bracelet combo, completed the outfit. “Very nice.”
He noticed others had abruptly changed their clothing as well. Either they had found the unlikely civvies in their rooms, or…. Experimentally, he tried to conjure a lit cigar, a common VR trick for programs that allowed it.
The stogie appeared in his hand.
He willed it away, worried. “What the hell does this mean?” he said to Lock.
The tall woman surveyed the scene, and Vango followed suit. Many of the group were sampling food and drink. Canyon had taken a seat and begun eating as if he feared the banquet would disappear. Stevie had a highball glass in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other and had cranked up the music. Now she swayed, her eyes closed, dancing alone.
“It could be a graduation party…or our last meal,” Lock said. “A transition of some kind.”
Token stepped nearer with narrowed eyes. “Or a reward, like Pavlov’s dogs. Maybe they decided to spare some processing power, give us a night of fun, and tomorrow we’ll be back to the training regimen.”
“No matter what, I suppose we should enjoy it. But it makes me uneasy,” Vango said.
Lock and Token nodded.
“Go play along,” Vango ordered. “Don’t spoil it for the others. We’re dancing to their tune in here, so let’s make the best of it.” With mixed emotions, he walked over to Stevie and took her in his arms.
Later, they lay in Vango’s bed, entangled and exhausted.
“Not bad for a dead woman,” Stevie said.
“Yeah, we’ve been ignoring that, but…how do we explain it?”
Stevie shrugged. “Who cares?”
“I care. It’s an anomaly, and it must mean something. I feel as if I could only figure that out, I’d have a big piece of the puzzle.”
“Oh, Vee, why can’t you just live in the moment? Enjoy life as it comes and quit thinkin’ so much.”
“I’m not built that way, Stevie.”
“Well, I am, and I’m not tired. Let’s go back and get plastered.”
“What if the sim is so good we’re hung over in the morning?”
“All part of the fun.”
“You’re a lunatic.”
“Like I ain’t heard that before. Come on.” She leaped up, tugging on his hand.
“No, you go on. I need to think for a while.”
Later, Vango dressed and looked in on the party. He didn’t see Stevie, only about half of his people in various states of debauchery, depending on their inclinations. Token was nowhere in evidence, which didn’t surprise him. The man was happily married and Vango had never seen him drunk or out of control, despite the high-pressure lifestyle of an aerospace pilot.
Well, good on him.
Knocking on the door to Stevie’s room brought no answer, but a memory and a premonition made him ease the door open—they had no locks—and let the light from the hallway spill onto her bunk. Though it didn’t surprise him, he felt his heart clench anew as he saw the lighter, the spoon and the needle still clutched in her hand.
They—whoever they were—had allowed the full range of human vices, it seemed. Vango found it still hurt that he wasn’t enough for her, but not as much as the first time around. And, at least in this incarnation, she wasn’t being carried out on a stretcher.
Suddenly afraid, he stepped over to put a finger on her neck. Thankfully, her pulse beat strongly. Would they let her die? Probably not.
The limits of the virtuality dragged at him, frustrated him with his own helplessness. The only place he felt freedom and power was within the flight sim, which was undoubtedly what they wished. Already he felt a Pavlovian urge to find a simulator and lose himself in flight.
Instead, he shut the door and went to bed. For the first time in what seemed like days, sleep eluded him. Eventually, though, he caught it.
When he awoke, the lack of detail and the flatness of affect within him told Vango that they’d withdrawn the brief grant of near-normalcy, restoring the sensation of inhabiting a plastic simulacrum again. Well, at least now he didn’t need to eat, drink, or pee. He sighed and rolled out of bed.
When he led his assembled comrades into the room full of simulators, it took him a moment to identify the difference in the room.
Then it hit him. The shield, Earth and orbiting warship of EarthFleet hung on all four walls, along with the flags of the nations of all the pilots present. Vango’s eyes teared up with the display, calling forth a surge of patriotic and martial pride that threatened to overwhelm him. The others seemed to be sharing the experience.
The cynical part of him wondered if they weren’t being manipulated even beyond the obvious. Would the controllers insert such emotions into their minds, despite all law and regulation to the contrary?
But what could he do about it except try to maintain his bearing and dispassion, and to help the rest do the same?
“All right, people, snap out of it,” he said with a voice like a whip. “Maybe the controllers thought we needed some extra motivation today, and that’s all very nice, but none of us are cadets, saluting flags and singing songs. We’re professionals, and we know why we fly. I have to believe what we’re doing here is critical to our fight against the Meme. So let’s play their games again, and by God we’ll show them that no matter what they throw in our way, we’ll win. Good luck, and good hunting.”
With that, he climbed into the simulator and plugged in his link, feeling the expansion of the senses that came with it. His vision now extended millions of kilometers and encompassed thousands of objects—rocky asteroids, icy comet bodies, the moons of nearby Jupiter, Meme ships and the friendly task force from which he prepared to launch.
This time he was in a tube on a missile cruiser. The ship was composed of a spindle and an attached series of expendable box launchers, little more than a transport boat for the wingless cylinders. Was this a new way of deploying fighters? Vango searched his HUD for weapons, but still, the game gave him only a highly maneuverable fuselage, sensors and communications.
The comms linked him with his comrades, but no amount of trying would raise the Fleet net or any other entity. So, they were still on their own, except for the mission brief display, which changed with the objective.
This latest scenario showed a monstrous incoming Meme fleet, at least sixty Destroyers plus attendant smaller craft, speeding directly toward Earth, though still out beyond Saturn’s orbit. The EarthFleet task force was already maneuvering to interpose itself.
“Everybody see that?” he said, marking the enemy with a caret. “That’s what we’ll be flying against.”
A series of double clicks came back, shorthand for acknowledgement. “Looks ugly,” Token said, no doubt voicing the thoughts of many.
“Ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” Stevie chimed in, and her boundless confidence cheered him. “We score high enough and maybe we get another party tonight.”
Vango couldn’t fault her logic. “The primary objective’s
a little different this time,” he pointed out. “Token, me, Lock and Stevie are directed to get within five thousand meters of Destroyers, separately. The rest of you get to run interference.”
“Five thousand meters? Easy peasy,” Stevie said.
“Don’t get cocky,” Lock said. “Nothing’s been easy so far. There must be other factors that make it harder.”
“Good thinking. Everyone stay on your toes.”
“Hey,” said Token, “You guys notice they upped the simulator resolution? Everything looks full standard now, like it’s real.”
Vango checked his. “Now I see. Maybe that’s the point of this mission, to get us used to the real thing again.”
A moment of quiet passed. “Any chance this is real?” Lock asked. “I mean, real real, as in happening IRL?”
“If it is,” Vango said, “why wouldn’t they give us any weapons? And there’s no way our bodies could take the Gs these things pull, even with gravplate compensation. We can’t be inside real ships.”
“Could we be in remote control, and these are missiles? Maybe they’re using our minds and skills while our bodies are in regen.”
Token spoke up. “Nope. It’s been tried. We’re operating light-seconds away from the cruisers. The delay is too great for anything but close-in work. That’s why all EarthFleet missiles have the best self-guiding algorithms possible, including true random evasion generators. Although…now that you mention it, these birds do seem more like missiles than anything.”
Vango experimented with his time sense and found that he could control it. In fact, it appeared he was in charge of everyone’s temporal speed, so he sped things up tenfold in order to make the inevitable maneuver-to-contact phase pass faster. When the cruiser carrying his squadron—that was how he thought of them now—entered the proper envelope, it kicked him out of the tube with a blast of fusion gases.
Lock spoke into the calm. “Look at your mission brief. Notice anything different about it?”
Vango did as she suggested. It took him a moment. “There’s a date. August 11, 2109.”
There Will Be War Volume X Page 29