Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  The door closed behind them.

  * * *

  When they’d gone, Ecko lay still.

  His head was a glaring question mark. The beautiful, alien voice; the words it spoke. It was all wrong; sounded wrong, smelled wrong, tasted wrong.

  He listened.

  No howling weather. No traffic, no sirens, no pounding nightclub bass. The party noises were coming from a lower floor, he must be upstairs. The air was quiet; yeah, it was too damn quiet and it was freaking him out.

  The obvious conclusion – that this was one of Grey’s shit-holes – he’d dismissed when he’d realised the room was too big.

  The voice had said he wouldn’t regain consciousness for a while, they’d probably left him alone. Turning off his flickering digital clock, he counted: one dead corporate, two dead corporate...

  When he hit six hundred without noise or motion, he slitted open his eyes.

  And the big question mark got one helluva lot bigger.

  It took him a stunned moment to realise it was a set-up, a set-up. It was some kind of simulated environment.

  Had to be.

  Ecko was on a couch, one of three that surrounded a small table in the centre of a large, low-ceilinged room. On the table sat his webbing and cloak. Light came from some kind of writing desk that sat by a long drape – two further drapes presumably covered more windows.

  There was no guard.

  There was no security of any other kind: no cams, no mikes, no weapons, no trips, not as much as a cable. There was no console, no flatscreen. There wasn’t as much as a fucking datasocket – like you could fit one on a wall of bricks and beams. His heatseeker showed warm ambience, only the light source raised the temperature of the air.

  What was this – the set of some Sauce’n’Swordery routine? Was fucking Robin Hood going to come prancing through here any second? This was like some loony-trick spook-interrogation thing. If this was Grey’s idea of a head game...

  Maybe they’d left him free, with his kit, just to see what he’d do – there had to be a vid-feed somewhere.

  Yeah? Well, he was gonna take that bluff.

  His webbing and cloak were untouched. As he kitted back up, he realised two things – that he had no injuries other than his ripped fingertips and that there was no sign of Salva’s rifle. Warning alarms rang in his head, but he flicked his hood to cover his face and headed for the nearest window.

  First priority – find a way outta here.

  The desktop offered no information – just curly papers and a feather-in-a-pot cliché that made him wince. The feather was a bright, UV-brilliant white. The room’s light source appeared to be a rock, for chrissakes. Shaking his head at Grey’s apparently whimsical nature, he tweaked back the edge of the curtain.

  A slice of bright illumination made the colours of his skin recoil.

  His oculars defending his vision, he looked out at the polluted, halogen-blazing –

  The sky was dark, untouched by advertising – unobscured by clouds or buildings, by the Tate’s ever-cycling LED. It was pitch-black, crystal-vision clear and completely starless.

  What?

  That wasn’t right.

  The moon was half full, low, brilliant and shimmering silver. It was way too close and way too bright – that wasn’t right either. The second moon, a little higher and glowing a fantastic yellow gold, was also half full. That was getting beyond not-right.

  What freaked Ecko right out was that it was the other half.

  He blinked.

  No fucking way.

  Reality took a half step sideways, staggered, and fell on its ass. Panic rose in his throat and he found himself fighting to breathe – what the hell was going on? His adrenals had instinctively kicked; he was shivering with fight-or-flight tension and it was making him queasy.

  It was a picture, a projection of some kind, it had to be. They were just messing with his head...

  He was losing control of his gut. Think, he told himself. Get a fucking grip for chrissakes.

  He’d been sent on a recce. He’d jumped off the roof. He’d splatted on the tarmac like a lump of strawberry jam. Grey could’ve done whatever he wanted...

  Fucking Grey.

  The memory was like a reprieve, he found his knees going. This was a simulation all right, they’d shoved him in one of those boxes and plugged him into the fucking console. It was a game: a few rounds of interrogation in The World of Anywhere-But-Here, soften him up a bit. It explained why the fall hadn’t mashed him.

  But then – how the hell did he get out...?

  Shielding his skin from the light, he backed into a crouch half under the desk and fought a sudden, choking clamour of panic. Even the drugged-up-zombie workers were allowed to game, it gave them an approved – and supervised – recreational outlet. Bread and fucking circuses. But if he’d been put in here, and he couldn’t unplug himself...

  It was an inescapable gaol. He was helpless.

  Yeah, Ecko lashed at his fear with savagery, but that don’t fucking mean you hafta just sit here.

  Annoyed at himself, he twitched the curtain. The window was long and narrow, tiny panes of – was that mica? – stretching floor to ceiling and allowing him to see outwards into the weird, pale-yellow light.

  Stone walls, dark archways, narrow, twisting streets. The moon... moons... gave everything a bizarre, cross-hatched shadowing that warped the scene into a comic-book fantasyscape, something unreal – a world as beautiful and alien as the voice had been –

  He was gonna puke.

  He let the curtain go and edged right back under the desk, cloak covered, his hand over his mouth. His gut was churning like the back wheel of Lugan’s bike, the adrenal rush had left him shaking like a –

  Again, he heard the door.

  What now? This place was like fucking Clapham Central. Secure in his stealth mode, he raised the front of his cowl high enough to watch.

  It was the owner of the voice.

  That same not quite familiarity shivered in Ecko’s skin, made his heart lurch with anticipation. Like seeing a brain-rig actor in the street – or a celeb you’d once had a crush on – you knew them though you’d never seen them before.

  The man who came into the room was tall – as tall as Lugan – but rangy, long legged and dressed like a ponce. Black boots and black pants looked like the bottom half of a highwayman costume; a loose pale shirt was stark against deeply tanned skin. Long, heavy black hair was tied back in a tail – in the light from the rock, it shone almost blue.

  Ecko’s heatseeker showed no weapons, no enhancements, not even jewellery – fucking diddly-squat.

  He needed his Tech – Mom – to run a full diagnostic.

  Yeah right – and he needed a radio. And Salva’s rifle. And a coupla grenades. And maybe some plastic explosive...

  He needed forty thousand hit points and a sword of bad guy slaying.

  What he needed was a fucking way out of here.

  The man stopped, apparently scanning the room.

  “The nausea’s a side effect of your transition,” he said. “It’ll pass. Kale’s cooking something that’ll help you – but you’re strong. It won’t be ready just yet.”

  That was the second time Ecko had heard the word “transition”. He swallowed convulsively; they had to be pulling his chain. They’d boxed him up for sure but they wouldn’t try anything that dumb...

  The man closed the door. The sound had a distinct finality.

  Ecko shuddered.

  “I’m Roderick of Avesyr,” the man said, “usually known as the ‘Bard’, though I fear the moniker is somewhat ironic. This illustrious drinking establishment is The Wanderer, it has the occasional habit of collecting strays – both local and otherwise. And you, my friend, would seem to be an ‘otherwise’. If you let me, I can help you.”

  An “otherwise”? What was that: a Connecticut Yankee in the King Arthur’s Arms? Silently, he watched.

  Roderick crossed the centre of the ro
om, stopped. “Know that neither I nor anyone in this building will threaten you. Please, I understand you’re confused, but there’s no need to conceal yourself.”

  He said, “Trust me.”

  “Trust you?” In a snap decision that surged ahead of nausea, fear and incomprehension, Ecko exploded from under the desk. “You work for Grey, don’tcha? You plug me into this shit, you question me, I tell you everything, then it’s Experimentation Time?” He leapt four steps and was on the table, crouched like a confrontation. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen through your little ruse. Bring it on, asswipe, let’s see whatcha got.”

  “Answers.” The Bard was neither startled nor slow; he spread his long hands in a shrug. “I’m welcoming you, trying to help. Your anger and disorientation are completely understandable – I’d like to try and make this easy, if I can. Sketch out the basics.”

  Ecko bared his teeth. “Don’t turn your fuckin’ vocal charms on me or I’ll use your skull for a piss-pot.”

  “I know you’re confused –”

  “Confused! You got five seconds to tell me what’s what or I start breaking shit. An’ you can begin with those moons.”

  “The light’s making you queasy?”

  “The light,” Ecko said, “is reflected sunlight –”

  “The light,” the Bard said with a half-smile, “comes from the Gods.”

  “The moons are gods?” He had to be kidding. “That’s one hell of an interrogation technique. What, d’you sacrifice virgins to the sun in your spare time?”

  “Round here, I’d only have to trade for them first.” His supple voice made the statement rich with amusement.

  “You’re a fuckin’ scream,” Ecko said. “Now. You tell me what’s goin’ on or I start burning shit down.”

  “Take it easy, there, my friend.” The Bard’s tone was humorous, gentle. “There’s no need to be burning anything. I understand this is bewildering, and I came in to help make you welcome – firstly to The Wanderer, purveyor of fine ales, and currently in the city of Roviarath.”

  Without taking his eyes from Ecko, he gave a half bow, spreading his hands, and his expression flickered mischief. His face was lean and bore a tracery of age lines; his eyes were violet and so long lashed he looked like he wore make-up. Watching him, Ecko had no clue how old he was.

  But he was still speaking. “Roviarath is our culture’s pivot and lynchpin, the heart of our trade. All around it are the Varchinde, the open Grasslands. Beyond that, I come from the north, the Khavan Circle. The Kuanne to the west is lifeless; the Archipelago to the east scarcely populated. To the south, the Red Desert is home to nomads, a hundred banners with a hundred cultures. They’re a short-lived people, but fiery.”

  As the Bard spoke, so Ecko’s surroundings took on shape and form, became more solid. The nausea began to ease. Yet the map the man drew made the whispering realisation louder... this was already far too complex, far too real...

  Real? Chrissakes, this was insane – even more insane than two fucking god-moons that disobeyed every physical law...

  They’d never make him believe this shit!

  “Okay, smart-ass, what’s the time: what year is it?” Panic in his throat, Ecko pressed for flaws, watching the Bard, the room. “Year? Jeez, three hundred and sixty-five an’ a quarter days, one cycle of the seasons?”

  “The Count of Time will be different for you – perhaps that’s no real surprise. Here, we call the seasons a ‘return’ – a Return of the Spring – broken down into cycles and halfcycles, twenty days and ten, each measured by the Moons –”

  “All right, already; enough.” Ecko tried another attack, pressing for the flaw, the crack, anything that would bring the walls down. “So – what – I just ‘woke up’ here?” He snorted. “An’ I’m s’posed to think this shit is real?”

  “I’m supposed to think it’s not?” The Bard sat back, lines of amusement creasing around his eyes. He stretched long legs under the table. “Perhaps you aren’t here. Are you a pathwalker, or a lucid dreamer? Or has someone placed you here for a purpose?”

  A purpose... the understanding was a fist in the face.

  Oh, for chrissakes.

  You get this right, mate, an’ she’s promised she’ll have Eliza fix you up proper...

  Ecko found he’d forgotten to breathe. In the ice calm of realisation, everything froze perfectly into place.

  You don’t understand how important this is – an’ I ain’t explainin’ it, not now. Behave yourself.

  It hadn’t been a recce – it’d been a fucking test.

  No radio, no rifle. No back up. A piece of rare and experimental robotics that he couldn’t hope to take down. A top, corporate, City location where gunfire would be ignored by the cops.

  How could he have been so fucking dumb?

  He was plugged in all right, but not to some drone entertainment game, some amateur role play... This was the real fucking deal.

  This was the full-on Virtual Rorschach, the mutt’s nuts, the fucking cat’s pyjamas. Designed by the Boss’s pet psychotherapist Eliza, controlled and run by Collator’s massive mainframe – a perfect blend of human instinct and mathematical algorithm. This “world” was made for him and from him – it was the extrapolated fractal landscape of his own brainwaves, a completely functional and unique reality, mathematically remodelling itself around his every decision and reaction.

  In short? It was his head.

  And he was stuck in it.

  The hypocrites. The lousy, rat-shagging, mother-fucking bastards – they’d sold him straight down the Thames! They’d flogged his soul for thirty pieces of ammunition! How could he have been this stupid?

  “I see you’re seeking your truth.” The voice was calming. Ecko focused on Roderick’s expression – wariness, compassion, concern. “The culture shock can be a hard thing to assimilate –”

  “Culture shock?”

  Naked, black-toothed savagery made the Bard start back. Ecko came off the table, his adrenals swift as a pounce. He had the man by the shirt and was snarling in his face. “They didn’t fucking do this to me, they didn’t do this! How the hell do I get back out?”

  “I’m sorry...”

  “Shit!” Throwing the Bard back against the couch, he lashed out with a foot and crashed the table into splinters. He spun back, targeters flashing.

  “This is insane!”

  Roderick leaned forwards to lay a hand on his arm. “Please. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish. And if you let me, I can help you.”

  “Get the hell off of me.” Ecko shook off the contact like a poisonous insect, backed up. It was too much, swamping him. He was sinking in insanity and disbelief. “I need – security. I need – my Tech. I need my fucking head examining. That wasn’t meant to be funny. Jesus, I don’t even know what I need. Why the fuck would I wanna stay here?”

  A ghost of a grin flickered on the Bard’s face.

  “You’ll have to stay somewhere,” he said. “This building was given to me by the Lord CityWarden of Amos. It’s a tool, a catalyst and a nexus. And it has very good beer.” When Ecko said nothing, he continued, “Look, I’ve spent my life seeking answers to certain questions – and, slowly, they have all come here, they’ve... coalesced. And now you’re here too.” When Ecko still glowered, the grin spread. “Where else would you wish to be? We ride fate, here. Tonight, we’re in Roviarath. Tomorrow morning, we find a new location, another city perhaps. And the day after that...” The sentence ended in limitless possibility.

  “That’s bullshit,” Ecko said, “you can’t just fucking teleport. What about your water, and –” he stopped short as he realised that if this was a constructed reality, the pub, like the moons, could do whatever the hell it wanted “– stuff?”

  That made Roderick chuckle. “Our water comes with us. We move just before dawn and nine nights of the halfcycle it’s to somewhere we can trade. Occasionally, though, we do get a surprise. Eight days ago, we found ourselves in the ruins
at Tusien, all our customers had been dead a thousand returns. Very bad for business.”

  “Christ – they’ve dumped me in The Magic Faraway Pub.” Cursing, Ecko spun from the couch to kick at table bits and pace the room like a caged creature. He eyed his surroundings with a growing sneer: no weapons, no plastics, no electronics. In fact – he noticed this after a moment – no metal.

  This was insane.

  Eliza’s Virtual Rorschach was supposed to be therapy, for chrissakes – a long-term, total-immersion solution for the Boss’s more difficult personality cases. He didn’t know how it worked, but he knew that they’d clock his every reaction, and he knew that somewhere, there was gonna be some path or puzzle, something he had to solve or achieve or piece together. Maybe he could find it, get it the fuck sorted and get out – and maybe if he did it fast enough, he might even make it back with his brain intact.

  Before they fixed him.

  Chrissakes.

  Once upon a time, Mom had made his body tamper-proof, unbreakable. Hell, maybe she’d made his head the same.

  Roderick said, “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “I’m Ecko, silent ‘G’.” He stopped his pacing by the desk and picked up a random piece of curly paper. He exhaled a tiny touch of flame. The paper flared eagerly then crumbled to black ash. “Though you really wouldn’t get the gag.”

  “Ecko.” The Bard thought for a minute then continued, “You’re –”

  A smart rap on the door cut him off.

  Ecko turned, half crouched, his cloak mantling, ash scattering, but the Bard extended a calming hand.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “That’ll be dinner. Having no idea what you eat, we thought it best to start simple.”

  Recoiling, biting back a sarcastic response, Ecko stared at the door, his oculars cycling.

  It opened to reveal a young woman with a tray propped on one hip. She was curvy, with shining brown hair and a cleavage you could’ve parked a bike in. Like the Bard, she had no enhancements, no weapons, no metal. There was something impertinent in her stance.

  Lugan would’ve been all over her like a tattoo.

  For a split second, Ecko had a vision of the young woman slapping the huge biker round the face. He almost grinned. Then the grin fractured and broke – Lugan was a million miles away, in another world, walled apart on the outside of Ecko’s skull.