Children of Gravity

by E. R. Jess

  Jenna loosened up, but kept one eye on her handheld three meters away, “Yes, I mean no. We should leave soon. If we start in their direction, I'll be able to pinpoint her better. Down to the millimeter,” She shook his hand.

  “And?” Makz tapped his foot.

  Jenna took her hand back with a puzzled look, then dropped that look when she realized what he was referring to, “Of course, the Redlist. I just need my handheld.”

  And the gun came up so fast Jenna was sure that was it, she was gone. Makz held it a fingertip length from her head, “Hope you don't mind, but I already have a hangover. No headaches. I'm not a morning person as you know, and I have the habit of taking it out on the people I see this early.”

  Jenna inhaled sharply when the gun barrel hovered in front of her. It brushed against her hair and it smelled bad. That close, she could hear the gun begging to be fired. She could detect the subtle creaks of the bones in his hand, the fluid stretching of the muscles, she could hear each individual groove in the pattern of his fingerprints as they coiled around the grip and trigger. The gun rattled in his tight grip. She could hear his skin bursting at the seams, he was dying to shoot. He would kill her like turning off a light. She put her hands out again, “Just the list.”

  “Just the list,” Makz echoed, “And we are going to talk about turning this off, with you around it's a leash,” He tapped his neck implant with his wristwatch.

  Jenna look startled, “You don't need it? That's not cosmetic, it's an endorphin regulator. They give them to ex-soldiers. You won't be able to feel pleasure.”

  Makz laughed toward the floor, “Never really worked anyway. I keep it as a reminder,” He lowered the gun, “No headaches.”

  Jenna breathed through her nose and said, “Yeah,” and went to her handheld to get to removing Makz from the Redlist. She paused and looked at him as he waited more or less patiently, “Reminder of what?”

  “A reminder that I have a job to do.”

  0

  “Outernet,” Revan stated to the inside of his augmented reality chamber. It was an oblong sarcophagus tied into the room by a cocktail of wires and machinery. He lounged inside, waiting for the landscape to change from matte black to the city entire, down to the molecule. The city unfolded before him, but it was not exactly the city he had come to know. This Free City was fifty-something years younger. It was a time capsule, left intact since well before the purge, in all its glory. A myopic vision, as it was impossibly neat and clean. Perfect weather, immaculate window glass, and its shining spires had nary a stray grain of dust accumulated upon them in all those years. It was the city no one ever really knew. Revan's avatar stood in on a spotless sidewalk and looked up into a body of skyscrapers, beautiful corporate towers that at that moment in the real world, in the real Free City, were piles of rubble and soot. Revan ran his hand along a topiary wall, he breathed upon a glass door, leaving no breath behind.

  “It wasn't a bad start,” Sen said, admiring the view, “It couldn't have been easy to turn the city inside out and rebuild it in here.” He was normally a smallish man, and a bit out of shape. On the Outernet he was tall and lean.

  “It was and still is an ad-soaked eyesore,” Revan responded, “Marketing ploy. Cheap tourism.” The City-State and Free City's virtual versions, areas once called Urbania 3, was a nearly exact recreation. It had all the shops and homes and bars and offices of the real world. It was all there, preserved against the ravages of time, a people-less city, enjoying perfect weather and flashing ads to no one.

  Sen strolled over, “It was perhaps the ultimate enterprise in redundancy. And it was funny that the real city grew too fast for the virtual one to keep up,” He and Revan continued along the sidewalk, “We take the Outernet for granted, but it wouldn't be much good without the foundations laid here. The recreations of the City-State that citizens work in daily came from these humble beginnings.”

  Revan wrung his hands, “This place is so cold and sterile, it make me want to roll around in dirt to shake the feeling loose.”

  “I find the emptiness revitalizing, actually. I get the whole city to myself when I program here. For the most part.” Adding the caveat for the infrequent intrusion by Free City wires. “I did find a group of hackers living here once. They were squatting in a luxury penthouse. They were starving to death, unwilling to leave their AR suits. They liked the fantasy better.”

  “At least someone got to use this place,” Revan remarked to an imposing statue of some long-dead industrialist.

  “And we will. We'll get some real miles out of the old girl,” Sen remarked with reverence.

  Sen waved his hand across the air and spoke, “Watch your footing.” The landscape folded in on itself and the two of them were standing in a pile of rubble. It was the Free City, broken and battered by time and war.

  “Not what I expected. When I complain about the sterility, I don't mean the alternative should be this wreck,” Revan said, puzzled.

  Sen laughed, “It's what the Outernet was for, to make a mirror image of the real world. This is pretty close to it.”

  Revan bent over and picked up a handful of concrete stones. “This is a recreation of the Free City as it is now?”

  Sen answered, “Yes. Eventually the entire planet will be represented on the Outernet. In the meantime, we've been copying the Free City ruins piece by piece. Every broken window and collapsed bridge. We created structural algorithms to guess when a building may finally fall to the ravages of time and compare that with the actual results in real time. Minister Kore, this should sufficiently knock your socks off: the Outernet version of the Free City is now a battle simulator. We've been distributing covert Outernet cameras in the fringes and beyond with hover drones,” Sen folded his arms proudly and continued, “So the next time you go out on a field trip, you will know just what to expect.”

  Revan nodded in acceptance, “It's a bold plan,” he peered into the remnants of a shopping center. It was the dead of night and the city's steely blue glow struggled into the building's recesses. There was movement in the shadows. Revan motioned toward the movement with a covert hand gesture.

  Sen peeked that way, and spoke in his normal volume, “Some squatters, rusters probably. We're south of the fringes by the old orbital elevator platform. And what we're seeing is in real time. Obviously no one in the real world can see us.”

  Revan's eyes went wider, “You're mapping everything? The people here don't stand a chance, we could sweep in and reclaim the entire Free City.”

  Sen smiled, “UPC's new mandatory amnesty policy will be implemented with great efficiency when we complete our remodeling. And to assist us, we have some help,” Sen slid his hand down empty space and the images of the buildings around them ripped away violently. The city looked like it was torn apart like a rag doll. It was replaced with a plain gray room. Sen turned and so did Revan.

  Standing there was a rather large UCM officer. He was armored from head to toe in a suit akin to an Urban Assault trooper's attire. Black and red plastic plates layered over a composite mesh. This suit was scored and marked all over. Small symbols, like hieroglyphics, were painstakingly carved around the plastic surfaces. It gave the highly technological armor a feral feel. The officer inside stood at attention, motionless and glaring toward the horizon through dual head-mounted viewfinders.

  Sen spoke up, “This is Morgan, a UA Colonel. He's been leading the augmented reality simulations. When he goes into the real Free City, the Outernet version is superimposed over his vision. This opens up a number of tactical options. He can effectively see through walls, watch satellite views of a battlefield, see himself in third person, move entire units of soldiers with an interface like I use to program in the Outernet,” Sen inhaled, “Morgan and his team can get into places conventional military personnel and aerial drones cannot and get the job done.”

  Revan looked up at Morgan and pursed his lips, “Why wasn't I brought in on this? It's a military operation. This is one of
my men. Was this a birthday surprise? Tell me it's for my birthday so I don't have you all deleted for going over my head.”

  Sen was taken aback. He stuttered, “This was a UPC black level directive. We were all handed our orders from the Ministry directly.”

  Revan rubbed his face. He put his hand up and spoke hurriedly, “Sure, yes. I must have skimmed that one. Black level. No point in having a chain of command with black level orders.”

  Sen stood quietly, shaken. Morgan remained at attention.

  Revan addressed Morgan, speaking clearly, “Colonel, what are your current orders?”

  Morgan looked off into the blank space and answered promptly, “To troubleshoot the Outernet expansion, Minister.”

  Revan shook his head, “I mean right now, what are you doing now, I want to see.”

  Morgan turned his head to Sen, who put his hands up, “Let's go take a look, then,” Sen made a horizontal motion with his fingers, like unzipping the air. After a flash of light and screech and squeal of audio feedback, the three of them were standing by a crumbling domed building in a town square. It had just rained and the clouds were parting, leaving a somewhat starry night.

  Morgan put his fist over his chest in salute to his superiors. He then spoke into his helmet and slowly a squadron of soldiers manifested before them, a shimmer of light and several men stood at the ready, their bodies materializing one layer at a time. Morgan started a fast walk into the building.

  Revan crossed his arms, “Are they surveying every building? It's going to take forever,” he said.

  Sen gave a rough smile, “No, sir. We sweep for blind spots in the Outernet views with extrapolation software. We can see the interior of buildings that the cameras cannot with high-frequency sonar and laser models, but a good pair of eyes helps a lot. And, Colonel Morgan is looking for people on the Redlist.”

  Revan clapped his hands together, “So that tank of a man is too soft to go into the field? He'll what, spot a target and send a strike team after it?”

  Sen shook his head, “No, sir. The Colonel is in the field right now. We are seeing his and the other soldier's avatars. Colonel Morgan is troubleshooting during actual battlefield assignments. We're that far along.”

  “Morgan watches the Outernet version of the Free City while he walks around in the real one. Sounds dizzying,” Revan scoffed.

  “It is disorienting, but they are well trained. And well designed,” Sen began gesturing on an invisible interface before him.

  Revan jumped when a flash preceded gunfire. Colonel Morgan's team had engaged someone inside the building.

  “Want in on the action?” Sen asked sidelong to Revan, “Looks like someone doesn't agree with our terms for amnesty.”

  Revan put his hands in his pockets. He shook his head and spoke, “You go ahead. I'm sure Morgan and his team are quite capable.”

  Sen smiled and dissipated with a wave of his fingers.

  Revan watched the strobing light of occasional gunfire light up the building's windows. He sighed and spoke to himself, “So, I never have to leave the office.”

  0

  Omo wandered the Free City for many weeks. He stayed in the shadows, stayed out of sight. When people did come across him, they were uneasy and unkind. Not only because of his appearance. Omo seemed to emanate sour feelings, though he himself simply felt confused. He saw some locals trading scavenged goods from the wasteland and he tried to do the same. He wandered around in the ashen landscape until he salvaged what he thought were useful items. Colorful wrappers, an ornate box, a broken bottle that held the light in the most interesting way. Omo took his items to a trader in an open market in the fringes. He waited until the streets were relatively clear before approaching a burly man behind an array of hanging pots and pans, baubles and oddities. Omo walked up cautiously and set his wares on the man's table. “Trade?”, Omo said, though the word came out distorted. He wasn't used to speaking.

  The trader looked at Omo's items and called them junk. The man's mild amusement evolved into anger quickly, but Omo was used to it. He took his salvage and moved on.

  He walked the streets and alleys at night, going from place to place until he found a niche in a building that no one seemed to walk by. He pulled some boards into his new home and arranged them in a semi-circle. He pushed a metal crate against a brick wall and set his wrappers and boxes and broken bottles on it. He sat Indian-style and rested there, admiring his belongings. Omo filled a plastic bag with ash and slept on it.

  He didn't dream so much as relive. His mind replayed the few events he could remember; his escape from the City-State and wandering in the ruins. His mind projected every happening behind his eyes, flashing every face and building in minute detail. He awoke to the sight of two men standing over him.

  Omo pulled himself up against the wall slowly. He kept his hands visible, kept his eyes on the ground.

  One of the men spoke. He wore a filter that altered his voice. “Ruster, what are you doing here?”

  The other man, who was pounding a length of rebar against his palm, spoke up as well, “This is not somewhere you want to be.”

  Omo's breathing was shallow. His pulse quickened. He was thinking of things to say, and he tried a few phrases out inside his mouth before he voiced them. All he could manage to say in his odd, sterile accent was, “I'm lost.”

  The man with the filter, turned his head, perplexed. “Aren't we all,” he said.

  The other man looked down into Omo's face. He looked into his strange eyes and scratched his head. “And what kind of implants did you get? Looks like they fucked up.”

  Omo shook his head. “I'm not sure, I don't think I'm real,” Omo whispered. Neither of the men would have noticed, but a thin layer of sand began to vibrate on the ground around them.

  “Look, man, you need to get yourself straight. I don't know if you're crazy or diseased or what, but you have to move on before my friend here caves your head in.”

  The man with the rebar put it to his side. “He doesn't look like much, but what about an orientation?” He said.

  “That might be a good idea. Sir, you may have found what you're looking for.”

  “An orientation,” One of them said, “It's just what this man needs to help him find his way.”

  Omo complied and let the men lead him into the building he was sleeping outside of. The man with the filter introduced himself as Meder, the man with the rebar was Kros. They were some kind of Free City tribe members. Omo didn't understand all of what they were saying.

  Their building was reinforced with metal sheeting and lined with weapon and armor racks. The place was in dire ruin, but had artificial light. Omo let the men talk before introducing himself, “I am Omo, I come from the Core.”

  Meder stopped sudden. He laughed silently in disbelief. “No one is from the Core, there hasn't been a Core for a long time. Who the hell are you?” He asked, losing patience.

  Kros looked around Omo's neck for a telltale barcode and found none. “Maybe he means he comes from the City-State, where the Core used to be, but I don't think he's a citizen,” He said, puzzled.

  Omo stood still. He held out his right wrist. On it was a barcode, though not a kind that either man recognized.

  “Wherever you're from, it's not around here. If I had to guess, you're a messed up clone of some kind. A blank slate. Could be that you got washed down a drain out of the City-State,” Meder said jokingly.

  “A blank slate,” Kros said slyly.

  Omo looked about the room, feeling uncomfortable, closed-in.

  Meder took him to a darkened room with a few old tube televisions. He sat Omo down in a chair and gave him a couple of heavy slaps on the back. “Relax for a bit while we get you something to eat,” He said.

  Omo watched as the two men left the room and closed a metal door. He sat back in the chair and got worried for his stuff that was left outside. He remained as calm as he could, not letting the situation or the people get to him. He remembe
red very clearly what had happened last time.

  The screens flickered on one by one. They were filled with white noise and gave off high-pitched buzzing sounds. He stared at the screens for a long while, fascinated by the little white and gray and black dots chasing each other around. The buzzing sound seemed to fade away, but he knew it was there, he was getting comfortable with the sound. He began feeling better than he had since he could remember. The televisions were singing to him gently, touching his skin lovingly with clean light. Omo inhaled the air deeply and let it stay in his lungs. He exhaled and felt wonderful. He couldn't put the words together, but he knew he had finally found some friends to help him.

  The door opened and Meder walked in with a cup. He gave the liquid to Omo and he drank it quickly. Meder patted him on the shoulder. “Feeling better? Good. We have a lot of work to do,” Meder said as he left and closed the door. Omo turned his attention back to the televisions and sat contentedly.

  “Omo, we're humble apostles. We believe in a different set of values than the rest of the people in the Free City. We gather people together and teach them our beliefs in hopes that they will help us, and well, join us in our struggles,” Meder sat with Omo on the roof of the building. Kros stood near a large rooftop shack. Meder spoke plainly and sincerely, “We believe that the people of the wastelands are lost, like you. We want to help them out of here. To leave the Free City and make room for people willing to rebuild it.”

  Quiet sobbing was audible from the shack Kros stood by.

  Omo nodded. “I understand. I know what it's like to look for something,” He said quietly.

  Meder smiled and stood up, Omo followed suit. Meder reached behind his back and produced a large weapon, an automatic rifle. “Will you help us? The Solar Temple needs people like you, people who aren't afraid,” he said and handed Omo the rifle.

  Omo had some idea of how to use it, having seen City-State guards carry something similar. He gripped it and tucked the butt under his arm. He stood there reluctantly.