by Harper Maze
“Utility alert. Water replenish. 225 $uns required,” the container AI states cutting through the silence in its emotionlessly-flat female voice (apparently cloned from some actress from the Marvel films).
As if I need reminding of my fragile financial existence. “Control Command: Confirm transfer.”
“Purchase confirmed. Water replenished. 225 $uns deducted.”
Moving from the darkness of realworld, or the images of my container beamed through the grainy CCTV, to the brightness and splendid reality of Sol is always pure joy. This moment of the day, when the light fills my mind and I see, is the point when I feel truly awake. Since Rebirth Day though, I also experience a flutter of anxiety in my stomach every morning; will Sol still be there? Today it is (relief). Sitting in the cinema room of my New York apartment, the first thing I do is open my messages, unable to suppress the wide-mouth-frog grin when Musa’s icon spins lazily beside her reply. Her voice is rich and calm, a lilting sweep of fused accents and sing-song tones. “…the engineer is in downtown Dubai on a job… he’ll be here for another couple of days only and then is returning to Kuwait. If you want the upgrade, it must be this weekend. Otherwise, we’ll need to find a new visor-tech….”
I immediately reply to confirm that I will be there tomorrow, and enthuse about how excited I am about meeting her realworld. Now all I need to do is persuade Denver to take me. He’ll be here soon, as usual, so I decide not to message him and delay the inevitable argument until he arrives. With nothing else to do, I grab some water from the fridge, and dive into the latest news and Darknet conspiracy posts on the massive cinema screen whilst I wait.
The news is mostly depressing with a focus almost exclusively on the Corps, their responses to Baktun, and which ones are thriving or crashing. Sol-Corp is verging on collapse. Denver’s opinion is that without Umbra—another massive corporation—providing Sol access, free visors and gloves to everyone, Sol would have gone offline years ago. Denver doesn’t trust Umbra any more than he does Sol-Corp, and I’m not sure that I do either now (my mind wanders back to the cloaked figure on the conspiracy boards, who claimed that Umbra is a subsidiary of the fracking Church of G.O’D., or COGOD as most people call them).
As for COGOD, it’s a cult that I’ve never understood, nor wanted to. I get that people need to believe in something, but O’Drae was just a man who invented something. Geniuses and pioneers throughout history have always had followers or ‘schools of thought’, but there’s never been anything on the scale of the Church of G.O’D. before, with its relentless devotion to The Creator as they call him. I avoid all COGOD followers like the plague.
There’s a new article by Arm@g3dd0n (my go-to master of all things fracking hilarious). He’s always sweet with me. The last time we enjoyed a decent conversation—G.O’D.’s Day on Newton 1st—O’Drae’s birthday, Arm@g3dd0n spent most of the session telling me how his realworld Persian cat refused to quit hunting his furry slippers and crapping in the sink.
Arm@g3dd0n’s avatar is lounging in his familiar Chesterfield sofa, reading from a leather-bound book, his smoking jacket fastened smartly and a cut crystal whiskey glass in his wrinkled and liver-spotted hand. His study is luxurious in rich woods, with an imposing mahogany desk to the side and shelves lined with books and other bizarre paraphernalia.
“Ten days,” Arm@g3dd0n begins, closing the book on his lap and adjusting himself on the plush sofa. “Ten days to the end of 3arth.” He pauses and waits for the camera to slowly zoom to a close-up.
“There is no doubt that Gary O’Drae was an absolute genius. He created Sol before the world knew it needed a global, shared mass-access 3D simulation. After the Devastation, Gary—or G.O’D. as most now call him, thanks to a fluke of baby naming —became a modern-day saint by rising from his sickbed and spending the last months of his life launching Sol version two.
“Hell, the guy has a religion that formed solely to honour his legacy. Unlike religions realworld though, the Church of G.O’D. is a true creationist religion.” Even in-Sim, Arm@g3dd0n’s eyes sparkle sardonically as he says this, because he knows how much it upsets followers of the declining realworld religions. “I knew him as Gary, not ‘G.O’D.’, and I was, and am, proud to call him a friend.” Arm@g3dd0n sits back and lights a pipe. A simulated match flares briefly before smoke drifts from the pipe’s bowl.
“But is G.O’D. now a hero or a villain? In ten days, G.O’D. will blow up 3arth, along with the rest of the Sim, and there is not a thing anyone can do to stop it. The techs at Sol-Corp are going insane as they struggle to break into Sol’s code. ‘Leet hackerz’,” Arm@g3dd0n continues, making air-quotes with his fingers and winking while puffing on his pipe, “the world over are faring no better. Which means, my dear friends, in a few days we all go boom, metaphorically. ‘Baktun’ G.O’D. called the day, a tribute to the end of the Mayan Long Calendar. Baktun, for Sol, as we are all now painfully aware is the fourth Intercalary Day since Sol v2 went online. Baktun will occur on the eighteenth birthday of Gary’s so-called Heir, the Son of G.O’D.”
Arm@g3dd0n sucks on his pipe and puffs out a perfect sphere the size of a soccer ball. He pauses for a moment as the globe flutters in the air before him, maintaining its perfect outline as it climbs and spins on its axis to form a smoky copy of Earth, complete with clouds and an atmosphere. Arm@g3dd0n puffs out another shape, a smaller ball the size of a pea, and then pushes it with a subtle breath towards the smoky Earth. I watch with morbid fascination as the pea forms a tail and accelerates to strike the ball in the centre. They both literally evaporate in a puff of smoke.
“The Heir, of course, brings us back to our mission to save Sol. It’s simple.” Arm@g3dd0n raises his hand and counts off each point, curling his fingers in one by one to form a fist. “We need to find the Heir, wherever he is. We need to find the portal, wherever that is. We need him to unlock the portal, when he figures out how it works. We need him to discover the unlock key, whatever that might be. And finally, we need him to decide to use his unique position to save Sol.”
Arm@g3dd0n finishes holding up his fist. “If not,” he says, thumping his empty hand on the desk, “Boom.” He takes in another puff of his pipe (which is pointless in Sol, but Arm@g3dd0n loves the theatrics). “And finally, we arrive at the rather plump elephant in the room. What can we do about Baktun? In my mind, there is little point in concerning ourselves with such things. If the best minds left alive can’t fix the problem, the rest of us should simply focus on enjoying Sol whilst we still can.”
He places his pipe in an ashtray on the desk and stands to unfasten the belt looped around his waist. The jacket drops away, revealing a dazzling three-piece outfit in gold lamé, with a burst of colour from a feathered Hawaiian lei looped around his neck. “I call for a ten-day party! Hook up those full-body haptic suits with the extras installed, visit the entertainments of Ganymede, gamble $uns on Titania, buy moonshine deliveries from Mars and stock up on all the food and power creds that you can afford. ‘Cause soon, all this goes boom, baby. See you in the Arenas!”
I sigh and close the feed. Only ten days left, mostly taken up by the Remembrance Festival. It still feels like a dream or a movie, it’s hard to accept that this is reality. Movies only last for two hours, but time seems to be moving in relative slow motion, the uncertainty of the future is drawing ever closer; now it’s more like the slow drip of a tap than a runaway freight train. The world doesn’t approach Remembrance like a celebration, but more as an occasion of worldwide defiance. We party hard and loud, so the Earth hears that we are still here, still surviving. I’m guessing this year will be bigger and louder than usual because it’s probably the last one, at least the last in Sol.
Heavy footsteps pound the metal walkway outside my container, heralding Denver’s arrival from next door. He stomps in a way which is unique to him. Even when he tries to disguise his walk, I can still tell who it is. I wondered once if Denver could be the Heir, but he was born in summer, Edison 17th to be
exact. Sometimes a rumour about the Heir being female bubbles to the surface, but if the saviour is a girl then it’s not me – I turned 18 a few weeks ago on the 7th of Halley. I guess we’re both nothings in this.
The electric keypad beeps, followed by the swish of the door and the stench of outside rushes in, causing my nose to scrunch. Carried on the smell of outside is a scent that makes my mouth water.
“Is that…?”
“Uh-huh.”
Our Dubai Haven receives regular shipments from the nearest Havens like Doha or Kuwait, both key cities inside the United Middle Eastern Territories (UMET)3. However, trades from more distant locations–like medicines from the Indian Provinces, or the clothing and rice we receive from the Republic of China–are less frequent. In return, Dubai exports power packs charged from our solar and wind farms, Pro-Bars, camel milk, grains and flour from the immense LED farms built under the Rub' al Khali desert to the west. Occasionally, a rare shipment of luxury goods arrives from the Southern American Federal Provinces. Deliveries consisting of llama products, coffee and “… Chocolate!”
Whilst it’s possible to eat pure chocolate directly from the slabs it ships in, I find it a little bitter. But cacao melted in warm camel’s milk is one of my weaknesses; it tastes divine and it’s a rare treat. Because the shipments are so scarce, and cost so much to transport, it’s majorly expensive – normally we can only afford to indulge when there’s a birthday or a special occasion.
“Aren’t we a bit early?” I ask, my nose twitching as Denver brings the steaming drink closer. On the camera, the drink looks deliciously dark as it sloshes in the cup, the wafting fragrance is intense and mouth-watering (and makes me dribble a little). Chocolate needs careful consideration. I remove my gloves and hold out my hands. The heat of the metal cup warms my fingertips as Denver places it into my eager palms. I close my fingers around the metal and bring the cacao to my nose, drawing in a deep breath. Chocolate could be an addiction if I could get my hands on more of the stuff. After days of Pro-Bars, water, and black tea when I can be bothered, it’s pure ecstasy. Even though the drink is still too hot, and is starting to scald my fingers, I don’t care. I dip my nose into the cup, inhaling the rich aromas, and grip it with locked fingers like it’s the most valuable thing in the world and someone is about to steal it.
“The old man made a deal. Something he developed for Sol.”
“That’s bad timing.” The drink is still too hot. I try, regardless, and squeal when it burns my tongue. I jerk back but don’t spill a drop. The bereft memory of that time I dropped a full cup of cacao flares in my mind, and I squeeze tighter still.
“Guess he’s selling stuff off, just in case Sol goes. Whatever, it means we’ve got cacao for next week.”
I repeatedly wonder why no-one has written an alternative to Sol. The technology exists, so surely someone can replicate it. According to Samir, O’Drae locked his code behind algorithms that nobody has managed to break, and even a minor scratch in the firewalls is heralded as a massive achievement. Compounding the code issue, scant few people know where the server farms are, and none but a few are permitted access. The resources required to build a new server installation don’t exist, not on the scale that we’d need. I forget, too, that it’s been less than a year since the Baktun threat appeared like a blazing ball of ice in the deep space of Sim. It feels longer, like the march of a relentless approaching death sentence. A lot of what Samir says is beyond my comprehension, but that’s what he thinks, and he’s the expert in this stuff.
At last the cacao is cool enough to drink. Taking a luxurious sip of the rich liquid, I can’t help but shiver as it coats my tongue with flavour. It’s amazing. It’s chocolate! I make the drink last, not only to savour every delectable sip, but to delay telling Denver the news for as long as possible. I slurp the final mouthful of congealed chocolate from the bottom, reach out, and put the mug on the top of my fridge for washing later.
“Musa messaged earlier,” I mumble.
Denver, I can see, is the other side of the container hitched into his rig. The cable and chain support in the ceiling squeak every time he moves. His sigh is loud in the silence, and he starts making faces like his avatar does in-Sim. “I thought you didn’t have enough $uns.”
“I ‘bayed some stuff.”
“Nothing important?” I shake my head, not trusting my voice to hide what I sold. He grunts in frustration. “I thought we were over this, Ana.”
“Why would I be?” Despite my best efforts, I’m unable to keep the frustration from my voice.
“It’s dangerous. Too dangerous. How can you trust Musa? Trust anyone?”
“Not this again…” I force myself to keep calm, I need him to help me get to the meet with Musa.
Denver growls and his harness creaks as he unclips. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I listen to his footsteps thumping angrily towards the door. “The whole thing is suicide.” The door lock beeps again.
“Fine, I’ll find a way to get there myself. Maybe I’ll pay Azeema to take me.”
He stops (as I knew he would). “She can’t help you. She’s a cleaner, not a soldier.”
“I don’t need a fighter. I need someone to navigate. Frack, she doesn’t even need to stay with me. If Azeema takes me to the terminal, I can pay Musa to meet me at the other end. When I have the upgrade, I can find my own way back, if I want to. I might go exploring and never come back at all.” The last comment catches me by surprise too, primarily because I realise that I haven’t spent a second considering what I’m going to do after I get the upgrade. Though, not coming back here and putting up with Denver the incredible sulk, does have a certain appeal.
“Fine, go ahead,” he growls as he leaves.
The silence is deafening. “Fine, I fracking will!” I shout after him, although my voice is more desperate than I’d like. “I’ll show you!”
I return my focus to the visor and swipe through to Azeema. Azeema isn’t just a cleaner, she’s my angel. She helps me keep the container free of clutter, sorts out my laundry, cleans and refills the water tins from the supply tank, and so much more besides. I pay her in $uns of course, but her help and company are my lifeline.
She answers on the third beep. “Ana? Are you well?”
“Hi Azzy, yeah I’m fine. Where are you?”
“Almost to your unit. I collected your fresh laundry.”
It’s a strain to hear her over the cacophony of sounds from outside, the drone of people around her, the sounds of tyres from infrequent electric carts manoeuvring along the dusty streets between containers and the angry howl of wind above the solar panels. “Awesome, thanks Azzy. See you soon.”
Impatient for Azeema to arrive, I unclip and rinse the cups in the sink. The aroma of chocolate remains in the residue, but now it reminds me of Denver and his stubbornness. Above the bowl is a tank that holds more saltwater from the supply, and a much smaller freshwater pipe which I use sparingly because it costs ten times as much as treated saltwater. Washed and scrubbed, I leave the cups to drain and collect my dirty laundry for Azeema. She’s happy to do that too, but I prefer to be as self-sufficient as I can.
As I’m pulling the sheet from the bed, the code panel bleeps and the door slides open. “Hey Azzy, I’m back here.”
“It’s me,” Denver answers in a monotone voice which says, ‘I’m fracked-off with you, but I’m here regardless’.
“You can turn around and go back out. I’m going! And there’s no fracking way I’m changing my mind!”
“I know. I’ll take you…”
“Azzy’s coming over. She can take me.”
“Will you stop! I said I will take you!”
“You will? What made you change your mind?” I can’t help but be a little suspicious, thanks to Denver’s recent petulant moodiness.
“You’re not going to give in, are you. Call up the loc, and I’ll make the plans.”
-13-
It’s almost eleven Sol
-time, which used to be called GMT, by the time Musa confirms she’s finished unloading a realworld delivery of some salvaged electrical components. Instead of messaging and running the risk of them being intercepted, we decide to meet in her online warehouse. After walking to the roof of my New York apartment, I select Mars, @G-49-F4 terminal on my teleport. Port 49 nestles in the centre of one of Mars’ more diverse trade districts, ideal for Musa’s particular business.
The surface of Mars is speckled with shopping and trade districts, like an acne-spotted red ball. Shops and stores radiate out from each teleport like spokes of a wheel, everyone desperate for any trade they can muster. Musa’s ranted so many times that G.O’D.’s decision to lock 3arth in Sol to 2020 killed local trade, because nobody can set their store up where it really is realworld. Pop into a flatbread shop in-Sim and it’s just as likely to be in China or Brazil as the Arabian Peninsula. Owing to this, Mars always appears busier than 3arth, with more avatars wandering the red planet than anywhere else. The constant teleporting between 3arth and Mars to buy goods is the reason for most people’s pet gripe with Sol-Corp, who charge a small fee for each teleport. The cost isn’t extortionate, but all those 5 $uns charges add up.
Port 49 sits in the centre of its own ring of shops, with small gaps between them spoking out to further lanes of stores. The largest corporations operate those visible from the teleport pad, paying Sol-Corp the heaviest fees to occupy the most prominent locations, and profiting the most from customers porting in. These shops are not often the cheapest, but they all boast the largest shipping networks with armies of delivery drones, electric buggies, trains and even shipping vessels. They are also the most reliable, with published local stock levels and guaranteed refunds – people get what they pay for.
Denver’s always late because he owns a huge French mansion on 3arth, so it takes him forever to wander through his sprawling chateau to his port. With time to kill, I settle on a bench nestled on the edge of the raised teleport platform and take a moment. The telepad is a replica of a Victorian bandstand, and the surrounding green space resembles a British park, with paths meandering between the main radial streets, swirling patterns of sim-grass, colourful flowerbeds and small thickets of topiarized trees.
