The Immortality Game

by Ted Cross

  Every couple of blocks another of the needle-like towers soared so high into the sky that it made Marcus dizzy to attempt to see the top. The towers of central Moscow rose like silvery blooms from a trash heap, their lower floors already dingy and decaying to match the look of the neighborhood. Across the road to the right, the ancient buildings had collapsed and the local denizens had taken to dumping their trash there, until the small block was little more than a series of waste mounds, whose stench permeated the air worse than anything he’d ever smelled.

  On the blocks between the towers, smaller buildings contained a mix of small shops and deserted, crumbling shells, while the road was lined with kiosks cobbled together with whatever materials the owner had managed to scrounge. There was a deserted church, the gold paint of its onion domes flaking badly. Few vehicles moved on these streets, while the sky hummed with the activity of countless lanes and levels of air traffic.

  Marcus wondered why Meshing had turned Phoenix into a virtual ghost town while here it appeared to have had little effect. He dodged around a small crowd of people eating skewers of meat at a kiosk made from old rubber tires and wooden crates. Poplar fluff whirled about his legs as he stepped off a curb into the street. The big mobster was nowhere in sight. Marcus paused to catch his breath and consider what to do next. He couldn’t keep up the chase and he could easily get lost in this alien landscape.

  «Papa, I know you’re upset, but could you get me an air car so I can help Zoya?»

  «Certainly. Give me a minute to contact a taxi service.»

  Still staring in the direction he had last seen his quarry, Marcus narrowed his eyes. He gave in too easily. Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, he took off running again.

  «Stop running, Marcus. It will be easier for the taxi to pick you up.»

  «I know you. You’ll have him take me to the apartment.»

  For a few moments there were only the sounds of the street and his own labored breathing.

  «It’s for your own good,» Javier finally responded. «I can try to help this girl myself, if you like, but you have no business trying to be a knight in white armor here. You have no idea where you are going or what you will do—»

  Marcus shut off his wireless and sped up. He had just caught a glimpse of the big gangster far ahead through the crowd.

  For once Zoya was glad to have the combat card. The way it made time appear to slow gave her the opportunity to consider her next actions. She hadn’t dared look behind her, but she was sure Tavik couldn’t be far behind. This part of the city was unfamiliar to her, but she was certain there had to be a metro entrance around here somewhere. Again she cursed her lack of wireless and the maps she could have easily accessed with it. She turned south at the next intersection; the morgue would be just across the river perhaps two kilometers from here, and she had always passed the Polyanka station on her morning walks to work. As she crossed the road she risked a glance back and was relieved to see Tavik and his monstrous comrade still a half block behind.

  The small hill of trash she was passing would hide her from their sight for a few moments, so she looked at the list of alternatives the combat card provided. The first choice of grabbing a taxi seemed logical enough, but she’d wasted a good amount of her meager savings on one this morning already, money she had been hoarding for years in the hopes of ordering a child from the clinic. Zoya laughed inwardly at the thought. What does it matter now? I have no life left except to kill these bastards.

  Still, another part of her wanted to remain on the ground, where she might get lucky and stumble upon a metro station or another bolt hole. She needed time to rest and think, time to plan her suicidal attack on The Pyramid.

  Twisting to slip by an old woman pushing a rusty cart, she tweaked her knee and the old injury to her elbow throbbed with sympathy pain. Just what I needed! Running became torture now, and she was seriously considering pulling the gun and making a stand when she spotted the familiar ‘M’ of a metro station ahead near a U-shaped building with rubble and tangled bushes nearly choking the dark entranceway. She looked closer at the side of the building and saw that it was the Kropotkinskaya station. Now she knew where she was—her mother had taken her several times as a child to visit the ruins of the nearby cathedral.

  Zoya ignored the pain in her leg and ran hard for the station. She stumbled and nearly fell as she crossed the street. Tents and makeshift huts crowded the strip of park at the center of the boulevard. The smell was even worse than the trash dump she had passed earlier. One of the metro entrances was boarded over with planks of ancient-looking wood, so she sprinted for the other side. There was a shout as she burst by two figures guarding the doorway. She tuned them out, swept down the short turns of stairs, and bowled over a man at the bottom of the steps. Strong hands gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the man growled, washing her face with the smell of vodka. In the dim yellow glow that the combat card gave to the man, Zoya saw that his head was shaved and entirely covered in hundreds of tiny curling tattoos. “You don’t belong here!”

  “I’m sorry,” she panted. “I need help.”

  The man crouched to retrieve a shotgun he had dropped when she had crashed into him.

  “Get out of here. There’s no help for you,” he said.

  More shouting came from the entrance above, and Zoya pointed up the stairs.

  “Those men want to kill me. Please!”

  The tattooed man raised his gun, though he wasn’t yet pointing it at Zoya. “What is it to us? You’re not of our tribe.”

  A shot rang out above followed by a cry of pain and some scuffling. The tattooed man cursed and aimed his shotgun up the stairs. “What have you brought down on us?” he snarled.

  Zoya lunged past the turnstiles and plunged down the escalator leading to the platform. Her knee was throbbing by the time she descended all the steps. Unlike the station near her home, this one was well lit by dozens of torches and lamps. The platform was covered with bedrolls and small tents, and she could see many Trogs lying, sitting, or shuffling about, all of them limned in yellow light.

  “What do you want, child?” said an elderly woman, leaning against the nearest pillar with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Several more Trogs stood up and crowded close to Zoya, several of them wielding knives or metal pipes, though their faces were fearful. Another shot echoed from above.

  “Help me,” Zoya said.

  A large man stepped forward with a grimace on his face, but the old woman held up an arm and stopped him. “How can we help you?” she asked. “Have you brought this danger upon us?”

  “I’m sorry,” Zoya repeated. “They will kill me if you let them, but they may already have killed some of your own.”

  “Get her out of here,” yelled the big man, hefting a rusty pipe.

  “Stop it, Leonid,” the old woman said. “It’s too late for that, I think. Again I ask, how can we help you?”

  Zoya pointed to one of the tracks. “The tunnels. Can you lead me south across the river?”

  A scream came from much closer this time, followed by a shotgun blast. The old woman’s eyes widened and she thumped the big man on his chest with one hand. “You take her, Leonid. You know the ways as well as anyone. Quickly!”

  Leonid looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead he scowled and waved a hand at Zoya. “This way.” He led her to a rickety set of wooden steps leading down to the tracks on one side of the platform. There were more makeshift shelters here, but no sign of the Meshing beds she had seen in the Kolomenskoe station. Scared, curious faces flashed at her through the dim light as Zoya weaved her way through the Trogs living on the track. Leonid snatched up a lantern before heading into the exit tunnel.

  More shouts came from behind, but Zoya couldn’t tell what was happening. She followed Leonid silently for several minutes. It was hard to see clearly in the dark tunnel, but she noticed that Leonid
had a thick scar over the place where his slot should be, as if someone had stitched the skin shut. She wondered if his entire group had done the same.

  “Do you know the way to The Pyramid?” she asked.

  Leonid glanced at her but continued stalking forward into the gloom.

  Zoya raised her voice and repeated, “Do you—”

  “I heard you,” Leonid said. “Why the devil would you want to go there?”

  “Those men and their friends killed my family today. They’re from The Pyramid.”

  For the first time the scowl left the man’s face. “So you want them to finish the job.”

  “Perhaps,” Zoya said, “but I want to kill as many of them as I can first. If I can come in from an unexpected entrance, I may have a chance to do some damage.”

  Leonid shook his shaggy head. “You shouldn’t have brought those men here. Why cause trouble for others? You could have—”

  “I didn’t plan any of this. Those men back there were following orders. It’s the person who made them kill my family that matters to me now.”

  Leonid halted and held the lantern up to Zoya’s face. “Lucky for me I can’t help you. The tunnels leading under that place collapsed long ago. Maybe there are some sewers there, but I don’t know them. I can take you under the river like you first said, but that’s it.” Without waiting for a response, he trudged off down the tunnel.

  Wincing at the ache in her knee, Zoya followed.

  Marcus stared with trepidation at the dark entrance the two thugs had entered. Wanting to help Zoya was one thing, but plunging into a dark hole filled with gunshots and screaming was too much to contemplate. He thought of his father and of how exhausted he felt, but then the picture hanging on the wall in Zoya’s apartment filled his mind, the sad little smile on her face, and he peeked tentatively around the edge of the entrance.

  Two bodies lay amongst the dead leaves and poplar seeds in the small room. The smaller form was a young woman with dirty blonde hair. Marcus would have thought she was sleeping if not for the way her neck was twisted at an odd angle. The other body was that of a middle-aged man with a long, tangled beard. He had a small hole in the center of his chest from which dark blood seeped and pooled beneath one shoulder. His eyes were open, staring blankly into the dark recesses of the entrance lobby ceiling. It felt strange to be relieved at seeing corpses, but Marcus had been worried he might find Zoya here.

  As there appeared to be no immediate danger, Marcus snuck to the descending staircase and saw that it too was empty. The shouting he had heard a few moments before had stopped, and he began to fear he might miss Zoya, assuming she were still alive. He shuffled down the steps as quietly as he could. On the second turn he came upon a man sitting against one wall holding his hands to his face and moaning softly.

  As he knelt near the man, Marcus carefully read the translation of what he wanted to say. “Are you all right?” he whispered, worried that the gangsters might hear him.

  When the man lowered his hands, Marcus saw that his head was shaven and entirely covered with tattoos. The man’s nose was broken and bleeding heavily.

  “You’re not one of them?” the man asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m a friend of the young woman. Did you see her?”

  The man nodded. “You speak funny. Are you German?”

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

  “Help me up. Foreigner, eh? On a normal day we’d probably rough you up a bit if you didn’t go away.”

  Marcus hooked his arm under the man’s shoulder and heaved him to his feet.

  “Took my shotgun,” the man muttered, then pointed toward the nearest turnstile.

  Marcus followed the tattooed man through the ticket booths and down the longest escalator he had ever seen to a platform crowded with gaunt, dark-cloaked people holding flickering torches and candles. A frightened mutter rose from the group.

  “Igor, you’re alive,” exclaimed the elderly woman who had been trying to calm the crowd. “Someone bring him a rag for his nose, quickly now!”

  “I’m okay,” Igor said, “but I’m worried about the guards.” He glanced askance at Marcus, who shook his head. “That’s what I feared. Where did they go?”

  The old woman pointed toward one of the tracks. “Leonid took the girl that way. I didn’t want to tell them where they had gone, but they saw the light from his lamp.”

  Igor looked at Marcus again. “There you go. I recommend you forget about her and leave this place. If anyone can bring your friend to safety, it’s Leonid. If you follow those men, they’ll likely kill you as well.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Marcus said, nodding, “but it’s too late to start acting sane now. May I please borrow a candle or something?”

  Igor shook his head again. “You young people never listen to your elders.”

  “Here, young man.” The old woman held out a lit torch and another as a spare. “Don’t leave the main tunnel. That way you can’t get lost. If you hurry you might still see their light.”

  Marcus took the torches. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

  Another of the dim figures waved him forward and led Marcus to some wooden steps leading down to the track. Marcus looked back at the strange assembly, waved once, and set off at a jog along the cluttered track.

  Moscow

  Sunday, June 8, 2138

  7:41 p.m. MSK

  The concrete walls of the little cell felt like they were closing in on Tyoma. He paced back and forth, three steps each way, and pressed his hands against each wall to give it a little shove, as if he could prevent them from closing in any farther. When this became boring, he arranged the three stools so that he could slalom through them as he paced, but he discovered that this made him dizzy, so he sat down on one of the stools and stared at the painting of Delchev. If Javier can multitask as well as he says he can, why couldn’t he stay and chat with me?

  He picked up the plate the guard had brought him with his sandwich and tried to toss it in the air and catch it, but it bounced off his fingers and clattered away into a corner. Funny how much I treasure my thinking time when at home, but force me to be alone and thinking is the last thing I want to do.

  «That was a very interesting worm you had in your slot,» Javier said.

  «Back at last,» Tyoma replied. «Took you long enough.»

  «The security here is much more impressive than I imagined it could be. I had a lot to concentrate on.»

  «What about my worm?»

  «You’re an excellent coder, Dr. Grachev. I never imagined someone could find a way to code a worm that could trick my sentry code. I’ll have to do some improvements. I’ve removed the worm, by the way. You’ll need a new firewall, though.»

  «I knew that.»

  «I could install one for you.»

  «Hmm, thank you, but I’d rather construct one of my own.»

  «Why were you infected with your own worm?»

  Tyoma explained what he had done to infect Lev’s virtual reality, incidentally destroying his own and the general’s as well. «I’m not sure how to make use of it.»

  «It’s something to consider,» Javier said. «The only way to get to Lev is to have someone plug into his private space. Your worm was clever enough that he should have no idea that his firewall is compromised.»

  «Thank you,» Tyoma said. «You were the reason I chose to go into coding. Your sentry code is a masterpiece. I’ve studied it for many years.»

  «Well, if your immortality codes end up working out, I believe it will be me applauding you and your colleagues.»

  Tyoma stood and began to pace again. «Okay, you said their security is better than you expected. What does that mean?»

  Javier gave a slightly metallic chuckle. «I managed to find floor plans for this structure, and I can get to their security cameras, but they have all of their other security on a completely private net
work. It would take far too long for me to attempt to infiltrate that. It doesn’t touch the Web, so I’d have to find someone from their security, plant a miniature version of myself in their slot, and wait for them to slot into their private network. Basically, and I’m sorry to say this, I can’t get you out that door.»

  Tyoma dropped himself back onto a stool. «So I’m stuck waiting for the general after all.»

  «Let’s not give up so easily,» Javier said. «I’m monitoring the cameras throughout the building. If the guard returns I can at least pin down your precise location. Do you have anything useful on you?»

  Tyoma considered what he had—solar coat and pants, walking shoes, shirt—and suddenly remembered the cards he had stuck into different pockets of his coat. He pulled them out. «I have these. I doubt they can help.»

  «There’s no camera in here. What is it you are trying to show me?»

  Tyoma fingered the smaller card. «I have two slot cards. This one is the latest version of our combat chip. It’s the first version where our testing hasn’t come up with any major flaws. The other one is a mind data card. I’m not sure why I brought it other than the fact that the two cards these guys stole from us included one of these, and I worried that they might demand one for some reason.»

  «It’s what your colleagues called an injector card?»

  «That’s right.»

  «Whose data is on it? Yours?»

  «No, though the one they stole had my data on it. This one is from Doctor Anders Thomsen. He’s Danish. Our molecular engineer.»

  «I think you should use the combat card.»

  «You’re joking, right? I’m not in bad shape, but I’m still too old to make use of the combat card. If I kicked this stool I’d likely do more damage to myself than to it.»

  «I think the combat card can still be useful should you need to move—»

  The door slid open and the shorter guard Oskar entered. Tyoma thrust his hands behind his back to hide the cards.

  “You need the toilet or something?” Oskar asked. “What’s that you got there?”