“That makes no sense.” Ti’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you blushing, Pheno?”
A dozen different, but equally brilliant, excuses rose in his mind only to be flattened by Ti’s pursed lips. He shrugged and tried to smile, which upended into a scowl. Pheno croaked out a “gotta go”, opened the door, and popped through it.
“If you’re hiding something from me, you’d better confess now before I find it on my own,” Ti yelled at the closing door.
“He is odd being,” said Eddientis.
“You hear me, Pheno?”
Pheno ignored them and hurried along the hallway, anxious both to escape Ti’s interrogation and to leave the dormitory before someone caught a servile in student quarters after serving hours.
The noises of a distracted city floated past him on currents of warm air smelling rank and spent. Pheno felt at ease spiriting through the service alleys tonight, setting his mind to wander while his feet found the familiar path. He disliked hiding, but keeping his participation in Sigma Games from Ti had been necessary. She hated the League to the point of raiding their network to shut down broadcasts. Pheno smiled ruefully. Ti’s efforts to end the games enabled his participation by restricting events to local venues frequented by spectators unfamiliar with a servile from the other side of the city.
He looked forward to tonight’s play. The last game. Three sigma—an outlier. A hero. Enough to buy freedom. Just one more game. I’ll show them who I am. The surge of pride and eagerness that drove him forward tripped over an unsettling awe. He had reached level three. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him; but it did, and that worried Pheno. Repeat the mantra. Do you believe in yourself? Forget about cumulative probabilities; ignore the impossibility of fewer than one in three hundred. Do you believe in yourself? So few win. Do you believe in yourself? After tonight, I’m free. Do you believe in yourself? Yes.
“His is such a feeble species.”
Murmured ascent.
“Do you feel feeble today, player?” Another speculator asked.
“No.” Show nothing; they’re trying to rattle you for better odds. Game play is relative. Pheno steadied his gaze on the silvered glass in front of him. Better that you can’t see them. Breathe. Keep your heart rate steady. Blink slowly. If they detect a lie, you’ll be ejected, or worse—handicapped. He knew he rotated within the examination cylinder, but the one-way mirrored tube provided no sense of movement. That was good. He couldn’t see the screens displaying his respiration, heart rate, neural firings, and other physiological measurements or the crowd of speculators evaluating his naked body.
“Hi, player.” Over the hum of many calculating conversations, a trio of decidedly feminine voices giggled. “You’re cute.”
Don’t blush; they’ll use embarrassment against you. Do not blush.
The same three voices squealed, “He’s blushing!”
Wonderful.
“Ooo, now he’s really red!” said the girls.
I’m doomed.
“Speculators, do you have a question for the player?” asked the League Overseer.
The girls broke into outright laughter before the Overseer cut their feed. Pheno’s flush of gratitude for the Overseer’s persistent, if vane, attempts to instill a sense of gravity to the games drained when he remembered the Overseer designed the games, including the interrogations.
Pheno wished he were a princeling playing the elite’s sanitized version of Sigma Games then he could have chosen to wear clothing during evaluation—or better yet, refused to play. He wondered about the rumor that the First Thinker’s son had chosen to remove his clothes. The other serviles said his cowardice in the game overwhelmed the favor gained from his nudity. The wealthy and powerful squander their advantage.
He resisted a shiver lest a rich speculator buy a cold game. Cold games had become uncommon because the League considered the shivering, disorientation, and coma of freezing to be both pitiful and anticlimactic. The ratings decline for cold games, however, never prevented a certain wealthy click from occasionally satiating their freezing fetish.
A new audio feed opened without the background chatter accompanying the other speculators’ questions. A synthesized voice asked, “Would you play the game if you weren’t a servile?”
Oh, no. “I . . .” Who asks that kind of question? What am I supposed to say—no? Disqualify myself before the final game? Lose my player standing and all hope for buying freedom? Pheno swallowed and slowed his breath even as the burning flared in his lungs for more oxygen to feed his pounding heart. What looks like truth? A half-truth, something— “I . . .”
“Do not answer that question. Speculator, your credentials are unverified. Identify yourself,” said the Overseer.
A hack? “Ti?” Pheno shivered.
The audio dropped.
“This interrogation is ended,” said the Overseer. “The question and Player’s physiological response have been expunged from the record. Speculators shall disregard the exchange. The Chancetaker has locked the odds at the ratios prior to the unauthorized question.
“Player, you will now compete in your third and final round of the Sigma Games. Per the League’s Code of Ethics, I will recite the pre-game disclosures. You heard these disclosures before each of the prior rounds, but you must listen, understand the implications of game play, and affirmatively assent to participate. Your prior consents are invalid for this round. After making the required statements, I will then ask for your verbal consent to play. These disclosures and your agreement will be recorded.
“The Sigma Games test an individual’s fitness by challenging a player’s mental and physical capabilities through three progressively difficult trials. The cumulative probability of surviving all three levels is about one quarter of one percent. Only the best live. The League pays level three winners one hundred thousand credits and awards the player “Alpha” status. Alphas must retire after their third game.
“You must understand the nature of the games. If you lose, you will die. You may choose to withdraw from the game at any point until gameplay starts. Once play begins, you have no option to stop. Do you understand the nature and risk of these games?”
“Yes,” said Pheno.
“You may choose to withdraw from play without penalty. Winning the first two levels means you have played better than ninety-five percent of your species, stopping now confers no shame. Do you believe in yourself? Do you want to play?” asked the Overseer.
“Yes.”
“You must state your name and your wish to play level three,” said the Overseer.
“I am Pheno, and I wish to play level three.” The weight of foreboding pressed upon him. He had felt detached from the mechanical process initiating gameplay, but commitment made the risk real. Am I crazy? So few survive. Why am I the one?
“Level three of the Sigma Games begins,” said the Overseer.
Pheno thought he heard cheering through the examination cylinder, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Spread your arms and legs, close your eyes and mouth, and hold your breath,” said the Overseer.
Pheno sprung to comply. Any delay might irritate the Overseer, who, with the flick of a digit, could change a game variable to the player’s disadvantage. Rumors had circled among the players that the Overseer handicapped participants for reasons as trivial as a fidget. Pheno also heard the Overseer hated Alphas for beating the game. What of the interrogation? It had gone poorly—too few questions. The hack disrupted the speculative frenzy build that generates the largest profits. Surely, the breach angered the Overseer.
Nozzles hissed coating Pheno’s body with something wet. An acrid, chemical smell singed his nose, warning him not to breathe. Has the game begun? What am I to do? Why had the Overseer skipped the countdown? He wanted to open his eyes, but dared not. Games commenced regardless of player injuries, and the liquid sprayed on him smelled dangerous. He felt the coating thicken on his body then the spraying ceased and a vent churned on, sucking contaminate
d air out of the tube and pulling fresh air in. He noted the incoming air entered from the bottom. This will probably be a drop, he thought, like the Pinnacle of Existence in level two.
“You may open your eyes and breathe normally. The game will begin after your skin cures,” said the Overseer.
My skin? Pheno opened his eyes. His eyelids felt thick and heavy. He blinked, squeezing out whatever substance coated his eyes. That stuff covered his entire body in a thick, black, rapidly solidifying goo. Pheno rubbed his finger and thumb together. Slippery. No sense of touch, only pressure. They had coated the soles of his feet too, destabilizing him. He flexed his hand first into a fist then an open palm. Flexible . . . and insulating. Pheno looked at the reflection of his body on the tube. While the coating was form fitting, it smoothed over and hid his nakedness and made him look less like a person, more like an object. I get it. Few can afford an intervention, so keep speculator morale afloat after losing games by preventing them from identifying with players. No person, no problem.
Pheno thought he heard something, more a beat or pulse than sound—a countdown, maybe—but the skin had filled his ears and blocked his hearing. Then the floor collapsed into darkness.
He felt himself falling briefly before his descent slowed dramatically. He saw, smelled, heard, felt nothing. Total blackness. Deprivation. Am I dead?
He inhaled and spluttered when liquid shot up his nose. Pheno opened his mouth to cough but instead took a mouthful of the liquid. Tasteless. Warm. An exact match to his body temperature. Why? So I can’t tell it’s there. He felt himself rising, and swam with the motion until he could breathe air. They stripped my ability to understand the peril. For what purpose? Because you can’t escape the unknown. Unknown or unknowable? Life or death. No, there’s no profit in executions. Always a way out. Always.
Pheno swam forward, or at least what he thought of as forward. The only true sense of direction came from the upward movement of the rising liquid. After a few strokes he struck a hard surface. Pheno felt the hardness. He learned only that it curved on both his left and right. He pushed off and promptly slammed his back and head into another hard, curving surface. The impact dizzied him and combined with his disorientation almost made him wretch. Pheno held his head, as much to think as stem the pain. He kicked to stay afloat. They’re watching me. Somehow then can see me. They’re assessing every move I make, changing the odds, betting. They know—
A tank. I’m in a tank. He reached overhead, but felt nothing. I’m in a tank . . . flooding with water. As surely as the water steadily rose, Pheno knew he would soon feel the tank’s ceiling, and know how much air remained before . . . Maybe the escape hatch is in the ceiling. He shook his head. How much did that movement change the odds? No. No escape through the top. That’s too easy, and I can’t wait to confirm because by then it’ll be too late.
He breathed deeply and dove. Pheno hit the bottom after about two lengths. Like the sides, the surface felt hard and smooth. He moved his hands over it searching for a change: a dip, edge, knob, handle that might signal a hatchway. On the edge of the bottom, with the last of his breath burned away in his lungs, Pheno found a thick metal ring joined by spokes to a shaft. He pushed off hard for air. The blow to his head nearly knocked Pheno out. Dazed, he inhaled and choked on the water filling his lungs. Stop. Let Eddientis die. Walk away and you’ll be alright. There is no second chance. I am tasting death. Stop it! Damn you, choose to live!
Pheno kicked weakly and held a hand over his head. Up, down, forward, back, direction lost all meaning. He kept his mouth open, desperate to feel the outflow of water that signaled the surface and air. His muscles failed. One last kick, a dying spasm, all he had left.
The water drained from his mouth. He gulped air and held it to float on the surface. Another gulp. And another. He floated there breathing . . . for how long?
His muscles recovered and with them came thought. I don’t want to dive again. I can’t. There has to be a way, but where? In which direction? Floating means horizontal. Up is in front of me. Pheno extended his arm. He touched a hard surface less than an arm’s distance above him. The gap shrank quickly. Not much time now.
Pheno moved his hands over the surface, forcing himself to move deliberately right, left, right. I won’t let them see me panic—even at the end, especially at the end. The ceiling was smooth and solid and probably transparent. No hatch. He struck it. The pain in his fist showed no way out. I have to go down. It’s the only way.
As he crammed air into his lungs, Pheno realized he may no longer be floating directly above the hatch. It’s there. Near the sidewall. Follow the tank’s curve until you find it. He dove again, kicking hard against the skin’s buoyancy. He followed the side down, and traced the circular edge of the bottom until he came to the hatch.
Pheno already ached for air. He grasped the ring and tried to turn it, but his hands simply slid around it. The coating they sprayed on me. I need air—there’s none left above. You swim up you’re dead. Pheno felt the ring and its spokes for purchase. C’mon. C’mon. None. Out of time. He jammed his arms through the gaps in opposite spokes and twisted. The ring turned. He did it again. Jam. Twist. Jam. Twist. He moved panic fast.
The hatch opened. A rush of water sucked him down. He torpedoed through a snug tube. Protect your head.
Pheno popped up into nothing. Darkness complete. Air! Three gasping breaths. Underwater again. He pushed himself up. More air. He stood, bumped his head. Pheno swung his arms into the darkness. He hit walls at arm span. Small space. No hatch. Water rising fast. It’s a trap!
Pheno gulped air and dove. The current pushed him back. He grabbed the tube’s sides, slipped out. Wait for the vessel to fill. Pheno allowed the flow to push him to the surface. The water had risen to his chest. He breathed deeply. The current will slacken then I’ll—no, that’s too easy, too obvious . . . like the hatch.
When he dove again, Pheno kicked off from the vessel’s ceiling, pushing into the heaviest flow. He aimed true. The extra force sent his upper body into the tube. Pheno arched his back and flared his arms wedging himself into the tube. He shimmied forward, lungs aching. Hurry up. Pheno reached forward. There it is, the hatch. It’s closing!
He surged, slipped back. Wedge! Wedge! Head through. Chest. Hatch keeps closing. Pinching. Hips stuck.
Pheno pushed hard against the vessel bottom; but the hatch had caught him; it kept closing; his pelvis popped. Too late.
He cried out—for the pain of crushed bone, for drowning a fraction of a span from the air gap formed by the draining water, for losing . . . everything. The scream of fury and death stole his air. Water flooded into him. Choking. Darkness fading to nothing. The hatch released him. Floating . . . floating . . . into nothing.
Chapter 3
The light annoyed him. Its brightness disturbed his oblivion, burned through him, and hurt as much as a loud, clanging sound. What . . . the hatch . . . I . . . I must have died. Have I reached Sanctuary, or am I reborn? I must be something because I am. If I’m something, I must be somewhere. So . . . where am I?
Pheno opened his eyes slowly. He blinked at the ceiling light panel. The air stank of rot and sterilant, the former overpowering the latter.
“You’re conscious, good. I worried for a bit that we had taken too long. Bricked the wetware—saved a comoid—know what I mean? Your resurrection surprised us—not many of your . . . uh, status inspire salvation, none really. Mostly we save the rich who play Sigma too close. Charge a pile of credits for that insurance, we do. The roster listed serviles only, so me and Josen, it’s my partner, we took the night off—went to watch the Kweller match, we did. Nearly missed the ping, what with the crowd cheering and all; good thing you was a drownin’; they’re easier, nothin’ to re-tach. You understand what I’m sayin’? Nod your head.”
Fingers snapped in front of Pheno’s eyes. Pheno nodded. He looked in the direction of the voice. An old man with grease-slicked hair and wearing baggy, stained clothes moved j
erkily around the room faster than Pheno could track him.
“Good. Up you go.” With that, the old man lifted Pheno into an upright position then pulled Pheno’s body across his shoulders. He grunted as he lifted Pheno. Pheno’s arms and legs dangled and occasionally knocked into unseen things. The floor and its blood stains passed before Pheno’s eyes. Then they were outside; Pheno sensed the change in air more than anything. The old man laid him on the ground in what looked to be an alley. He darted back into a doorway from which the light and stink poured and reappeared after a moment. “Here’s your clothes.” The old man tossed Pheno’s rags in a heap onto him and disappeared with a slam and the clicking of several locks.
A band of stars shown between the dark sides of the buildings. Stars of the same rotation? Pheno tried to move but his muscles or his determination proved too weak for the pain in his hips where the hatch had caught him. He watched the stars arc across the nadir sky until the cool air forced him into his clothes.
Movement came easier now, so he crawled to a pile of scrapped equipment that looked older than his father. Pheno tried to pull himself up, but he lost his purchase and tumbled when the junk shifted. The effort and the fall drained him. He pulled a piece of rusted sheet metal over him and slept.
Pheno climbed the fence and carefully pinched the coiled cutwire running along the top before flipping over. He expected the observatory to be dark, but frowned at the closed dome. He had looked forward to tonight’s lecture on black holes. Since learning of the Academy’s observatory by eavesdropping on a student’s hall conversation, he had attended every lecture, lying on the dome to gaze at the stars and listen to the Thinker’s words below. The rotating dome underneath sent him into a slow, dizzy spin anchored by the lights above. He never saw the celestial bodies the Thinker pointed out, never looked through the telescope, judging a thing’s beauty only by the whining and squabbling of students vying for their turn to look too long. Pheno lingered after the classes and gazed for hours at the lights in the sky. He imagined travelling to both wondrous and perilous worlds alike. His home lay out there somewhere, but he never looked for it.
Dense Space Page 3