The Immortality Game

by Ted Cross

  Sveta led her down a small wooden stair built into the train tunnel. From the level of the tracks, Zoya could see the bundles of cabling spread out across the gravel and running up to the slots of each addict.

  “This way,” Sveta said, tugging on Zoya’s arm and leading her toward the pitch blackness of the exit tunnel.

  Zoya paused and peered into the darkness. “Aren’t you afraid of the dark?”

  “I’ve lived my entire life in the dark,” Sveta said, flicking on a flashlight. “You?”

  “I don’t enjoy it, but I’ve spent years working in a chilly, dark room surrounded by dead people. I’ve come to think I can handle almost anything…‌or at least I did until today.”

  The darkness quickly became complete but for the lone beam of light playing across the ancient tracks. Zoya wasn’t sure how long they walked before Sveta flashed the beam at a metal door in the wall.

  “A maintenance tunnel,” she said, and led Zoya into a cramped, concrete corridor. An old-fashioned light-switch was on the wall, but the bulbs lining the ceiling were all either missing or burnt out. Zoya had never been very scared of darkness, but she’d never felt anything this creepy.

  “How many tunnels are under here?”

  “You’d be amazed,” Sveta said. “It’s like another city.”

  “I thought there’d be rats all over down here.”

  “There are plenty. They come and go as they please.”

  They came to a large round cross-tunnel with a trickle of water running down the middle that smelled like sewage.

  “North or south?” Sveta asked, indicating direction with her hand.

  Zoya held a hand over her mouth and nose to block some of the stench. “Anywhere, please! I can’t take this smell for long.”

  “This way then,” Sveta said, turning north.

  The whole world narrowed to the quivering beam of light and the echoes of their footsteps in the round tunnel. Every so often they passed a rusty iron ladder set against the wall and leading up to a manhole cover.

  “How much longer?” Zoya murmured.

  “Right here,” Sveta said, stopping at one of the ladders and flashing the light up at the cover. “You’ll be safe here.”

  Zoya touched the iron ladder, expecting it to feel slimy, but it was cold and dry. She turned and hugged Sveta, kissed her cheeks. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Sorry about your mother.”

  Zoya nodded, then clambered up the ladder. She put a hand on the manhole cover and pushed, but it didn’t budge.

  “You need more leverage. They’re heavy.”

  Zoya climbed another rung, bent her head, and put her shoulder to the cold iron. Slowly she was able to shove the cover to one side, welcome daylight flooding through the hole. She stuck her head up and saw that she was just outside the refugee camp in Kolomenskoe. The smell of the camp was nearly as bad as that of the sewer pipe. A few trees and a black iron fence separated her from the people in the camp. Relieved, she scrambled out of the hole and turned to peer down at Sveta. Their eyes met and held for a few moments. Sveta smiled and gave a small wave. Zoya nodded in return, then struggled to push the manhole cover back into place.

  Poplar seeds floated everywhere under the overcast but still bright sky. It was hard to believe it was the same day. Her brother’s murder felt like it had happened a week ago. She considered where to go. The morgue? But her colleagues would be at home on Sunday, and anyhow Tavik knew she worked there. Her friends? Her uncle? The short mobster had threatened them all. It mattered little what she thought; she knew she must check on her mother. Stupid. You’re going to walk right into their hands. Then she thought, Do I care? And what about the lost card? It’s one of my only bargaining tools, and I lost it somewhere.

  Sveta had brought her to a perfect place. She could cross the street and approach her apartment block from the rear. There was a wall behind her complex that she had climbed many times as a kid. She hoped she could see signs of the mobsters without them seeing her.

  As she walked, constantly scanning her surroundings, her mind kept turning to the data card in her pocket. It still made her nervous, but curiosity itched inside her. What could be so important that good people had to die?

  She stepped off the sidewalk and approached two trees that looked like they would make a decent screen. Leaning against one of them, she pulled the card from her pocket and reread the label: ‘K3 - v2.6’. What could it mean? Since finishing school, she’d mostly used cards for music or reading. Sometimes she would pore over collections of art.

  She brought the card up to her slot, hesitated, then pushed it in, wincing as the card clicked into place. Nothing happened that she could detect. She probed the interface for data access and saw an enormous index. It was overwhelming, but she noticed many of the features fell into categories: a multitude of martial arts sims; military history; combat strategy and tactics; weapons of all types. The list went on, but she lost interest. Georgy risked his life for a stupid military chip? It looks like something they’d give to draftees for training. Why would the mob care about this?

  It made the deaths of her family members feel even worse that they had happened over something so trivial. She glanced about quickly to see if anyone was around, then returned to the sidewalk. To the left was the camp, and she suddenly noticed something strange about the refugees—each of them had a yellow aura. She halted and stared openmouthed at all of the faintly glowing people. She reached up and ejected the card, and the glow vanished.

  That’s really odd. What is that for? She reinserted the card and the glow returned. She sent a query to the interface, and it provided a short report from the combat category. Yellow aura is for unknowns. Red is for enemies. Green is for friendlies.

  She was about to eject the card again when it occurred to her that perhaps the card’s features might prove useful for eluding her pursuers. A quick scan all around showed no red auras. Even with the oddly-colored people, the view wasn’t too disconcerting, so she left the card in place and continued on.

  It took half an hour to circle around to the rear of her complex, but at last she climbed the short wall and peered over into the parking lot. No one was in sight, but an expensive-looking air car hovered a few meters above the ground not far from her entrance door. That can’t be good, she thought. Someone from the military, perhaps?

  There was no sign of Tavik’s green car, the police, or the sky cycles. The muscles of her arms strained to hold her chin up above the wall, forcing her to make a choice. She pulled herself up and dropped to the dirt on the other side of the wall. The expensive car showed no movement or any other sign that someone had noticed her, so she cautiously made her way toward the entrance door. Her eyes never paused, flicking between the car, the door, Pig’s broken window, scanning the surrounding area.

  Shouts from her right startled her, but it was just the three boys running back into the parking lot, one carrying a football. The card took a moment before deciding on a green aura for them. She didn’t know the boys well, but she’d seen them around enough to know they were harmless.

  She picked up her pace as she drew near the door, and breathed a sigh of relief when she reached it safely, punched in her code, and pulled the door open. There was no sign of anyone in the entry hall, so she cautiously made her way to the stairs and started up.

  As she climbed flight after flight, she kept imagining various traps that Tavik had set for her. Mobsters would trap her in the stairwell, or perhaps they would be waiting in the apartment. She ran into no one, though, and heard nothing until she approached the tenth floor landing. Here she heard voices, muffled by distance; one sounded menacing and the other scared…‌and speaking with a strange accent.

  She considered fleeing back down the stairs, but decided to risk a peek through the doorway.

  She saw one of the mobsters who had been with Tavik, the larger one, limned in red and pulling a gun from his coat. He was st
epping back from a short, pudgy dark-haired man with a yellow aura. Everything became strange. Zoya felt her heart pounding like she’d never felt it before, a roaring thud within her mind, and it seemed she could hear the blood rushing through her veins. The slot card began feeding her an incredible amount of information, and somehow she could process it all—there was name, configuration, and history of the Gsh-18 handgun the mobster was holding to the small man’s head; trajectory lines pointing like lasers from the barrel of the gun; a multitude of tactical suggestions, listed in order of estimated success, and changing moment to moment with each movement the mobster made.

  Zoya tried to turn around and flee down the stairs, but incredibly she found herself rushing at the mobster, taking an angle along the left side of the corridor to reduce his chance of catching her out of the corner of his eye. Her body was betraying her, moving of its own accord. Even more incredibly, everything she looked at appeared to be moving in slow motion, though she felt as if she were moving at full speed. Why am I doing this? I don’t want to do this. Am I insane?

  Her heart continued to pound at normal speed, but the small man’s head turned toward her ever so slowly, his eyes widening. She was nearly there when the mobster’s head began to inch around in her direction. The tactical display blazed with choices, but she had no idea how to use the card or even if she was in control of her own body at all.

  The mobster’s eyes finally caught sight of her and his mouth began to open just as she twirled her body and slammed the edge of her hand at full strength into his adam’s apple. The man reached toward his neck and began to fall. It happened so slowly that Zoya was able to recover, swing about, and kick the man in the groin. She saw the man’s eyes roll up, his head cracked against the wall, and he slid unconscious to the floor.

  Zoya spun to confront the man cringing on his knees. His aura remained yellow, and he held up his hands as if to surrender, fear plain on his face. Zoya’s heart stopped thudding and time seemed to return to normal speed. Her body felt like her own to control again. What in God’s name just happened? She never took her eyes from the man as she knelt to retrieve the gun the mobster had dropped.

  “Who are you?” she asked. She noticed that the man had strange clothing. It looked expensive, but not at all like the kinds of clothing worn by the rich people she saw downtown. The man was pale and slicked with sweat. He had hair even darker than Zoya’s, and thick expressive brows. His brown eyes were puffy with dark circles under them, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. He was flabby and pot bellied, which was unusual given that exercise sims and nanobots could make up for most inactivity.

  The man’s mouth worked for a moment, making him look like a dying fish. “I…”

  Zoya pointed the gun at the man’s knee. “I said, who are you?”

  Moscow

  Sunday, June 8, 2138

  4:18 p.m. MSK

  Tyoma nodded with satisfaction at the large conference room wall screen. The code he’d slipped into General Andreykin’s slot interface via his wireless had succeeded in burrowing through his firewall. Tyoma set the computer to capture all data passing through the general’s slot, and to pass it securely to Tyoma’s apartment computer as well.

  The wall speaker beeped for an incoming call.

  “Answer,” Tyoma said, and the screen full of code vanished, replaced by an image of Volodya Glek. It took all of Tyoma’s strength to keep a grimace from his face.

  “Ah, someone is still there. Good!” Volodya said.

  “What do you want? Do you have news of the guard?”

  Volodya waved a hand dismissively. “No, no. Could you please do me a favor? Bring one of the cards to me?”

  This gave Tyoma pause, and he searched Volodya’s face for a clue to what could cause him to so casually break one of the strongest rules of the compound—never allow any of the data cards outside except under the most exceptional circumstances. Other than looking a little distracted—and being more polite than usual—there was nothing suspicious on Volodya’s face.

  Volodya read Tyoma’s pause and nodded. “I know, I know, but there’s an excellent reason. Please, just bring it and I’ll explain everything.”

  Tyoma realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and shook his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that. We already lost two cards. Taking another off compound is begging for trouble. You must explain—”

  “Please, Tyoma!” Now sweat glistened on Volodya’s forehead, and he glanced sideways away from the screen. “I—”

  A hand holding a gun thrust itself into view in front of Volodya’s face, followed by the head of a man Tyoma had never before seen. Brown hair in tangled curls, an unshaven face, and eyes that bulged slightly; the man grinned and pointed the gun at the screen. “You’re gonna want to be bringing it along now, old man. You don’t want your friend here to have an accident, do you?”

  “What’s this? Are you working with the guard to steal our data? Why—”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions, fuckface. Just bring the fucking card!”

  Tyoma threw up his hands. “You have one already! What do you need another one for?”

  The man used the tip of the gun’s barrel to scratch his cheek. “Ah, well. We had a little setback, let’s say. The chips went missing, and we’re having trouble finding them. We’re done messing around, so do what you’re told. We’ll be waiting for you near the statue of Yuri Dolgoruki. Don’t do anything stupid. Try to involve the fucking police or the military, and you’ll be in for a surprise.”

  Tyoma was about to respond but the call terminated. He sat for a minute, breathing steadily to calm his nerves. He smiled as he considered ignoring the problem and letting Volodya get his comeuppance, but despite his intense dislike for the arrogant son-of-a-bitch, he could never wish actual harm on the man. He sighed and rose from the table to walk to the storage room. After passing security and opening the drawer with the most recent data cards, he paused to consider the situation. How much do these people know? They seemed content to have whatever the guard was able to snatch. Hell, they could’ve had him grab everything he found, but he didn’t, which means they even wanted him to try to be circumspect, if possible.

  He flipped through the combat chips until he found one of the older versions. He took it, then after a moment’s hesitation also added one of the latest. If they know I’m giving them a bad one they may kill us. He nearly shut the drawer, but paused again and pulled out one of the mind recordings. The label told him it was a recording of the Dane Anders Thomsen. Tyoma put each card into a different pocket, willing himself to remember which card went where. He chewed his lip and tried to picture how the meeting near the statue of the old Tsar Yuri Longarms might go down. Every scenario he imagined went badly. He secured the room and headed for his air car.

  Moscow

  Sunday, June 8, 2138

  4:20 p.m. MSK

  Marcus had recognized the woman from the portrait instantly, even with her hair cut short. One moment he’d thought he was about to have his brains plastered to the dingy corridor wall, and the next he had caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head to see her sprinting down the hallway with a crazed expression on her face.

  What happened next felt more like a dream than reality, almost like watching an action vid starring Kwon Lee or Bobby Wang. The woman was shorter than he had imagined her, yet she moved with the speed and grace of a leopard, not hesitating even a moment in her vicious attacks on the big man. Her skill was breathtaking to watch, and the man was slumped against the far wall seemingly as fast as the attack had begun.

  Now Marcus stared openmouthed as this slight, lovely woman pointed a gun at his kneecap.

  “I…” It struck him that he had never spoken face to face with a beautiful woman before. He’d pretty much assumed he would live out his life without ever meeting an attractive woman. His face reddened as he realized what he must look like, his
feet splayed out before his abundant belly, his skin pasty from too many years with no sun. “I’m Marcus.”

  “A foreigner?” she said. “Why are you here?”

  Marcus sighed. This again. “My, uh…‌my father sent me here.” He pointed toward her apartment door. “I’m a diplomat.”

  “Diplomat? I would think a diplomat would speak Russian better than that. You German?”

  “German? No, I’m from America West.”

  The woman nodded like that explained everything. “Mormon. Why did your father send you here?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m not Mormon. My father thought—”

  “How could you be a diplomat then? America West is a hard-line theocracy.”

  “No, not really,” Marcus said. “I mean, it is a theocracy now, but it’s not so hard-line. They don’t let us vote or have non-Mormon churches, but we’re left in peace otherwise.”

  She looked impatient now and waved the gun in the direction of her apartment. “Get up slowly and move to the door.”

  “You don’t want to go in there. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? We’ll see about that. Just do what I ask, please.”

  Marcus shoved himself upright and edged along the wall until he reached the open door of the apartment. The woman turned and knelt near the unconscious man. She put the gun on the floor and raised her hands to her face. Marcus was surprised when she began to shake. He took a step toward her.

  “I’m a doctor, too,” he said. “I could check him, if you like.”

  She snatched up the gun again and leapt to her feet, weapon pointed at his chest. Her cheeks were stained with tears, but her eyes were angry. “Stay where you are. No…‌no wait. Come check him, but don’t try anything or…”

  She retreated a step for each one he took. When he reached the man, Marcus knelt and felt for a pulse. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not that the man still lived. He looked up at the woman. “He’s alive.”