Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  Samer points up at the three screens across from Rose.

  ‘I’ll have to hack into the sync data and mask your output signal with a male profile. Brennan tested his earlier. We’ll use Maynard’s biometric data as a template. We’ll also give you a male avatar.’

  ‘That’s gonna be weird.’

  In the Sight, Rose watches as her screen flickers intermittently to black while Samer hacks the sync program. Her liquid female avatar changes to a male body shape. On the avatar screen, Brennan finishes generating a muscular male avatar, with military cropped hair.

  ‘Good work, guys, I’m now officially a man. Oh, I got pecs too. Are we done?’

  ‘Add some tattoos. There we go. The very definition of alpha male,’ she hears Owen comment, leaning closer to her. ‘This is just like one of your undercover jobs. But to blend in with the other members in Erotix, you’ll need to act like a man too. Starting with the username. How about . . . Des Troy? It’s what I use for online shooters.’

  Brennan types. ‘We have a winner.’

  DES TROY

  Confirm username?

  ‘Confirm,’ Rose says.

  ‘Remember, alpha male,’ Owen says. ‘That means posing, peacocking, putting other men down, looking at tits and ass, hiding insecurities, not talking about problems – the usual.’

  ‘So, like most of the men I know.’

  Brennan takes her through the mind sync and any other last-minute details. Rose likes the sensation of how cool and surprisingly comfortable wearing the Skin makes her feel.

  ‘We got a slush account of jewels, which you’ll need. I think that’s it. Samer?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything else.’

  ‘OK, let’s roll. We need to get to Jeff,’ says Baptiste.

  Rose looks in front of her.

  Enter StreamPlex?

  ‘And remember, Rose,’ Owen’s voice says in her ear bud. ‘We have a comms unit so we can speak to you, but don’t speak to us unless you absolutely need to or are in a safe place. We don’t want anyone getting suspicious. Undercover surveillance in the Stream without a warrant may not hold up in court. Not yet. You’ve got no authority there – no guns, no arrest. No way of doing any of those things, anyhow.’

  ‘Can I get hurt?’

  ‘No . . .’ Brennan says. ‘From what we’ve been told, the suit mimics reality but the programming has fail-safes to protect the user.’

  ‘Tell that to Coulter and Shaw,’ Rose says.

  ‘Easy, Rosie,’ Owen says. ‘We can see your biometrics here and I know you’re scared. This isn’t going to be anything like the others. This isn’t real. One problem here and we can pull the plug, get you out.’

  ‘Remember,’ says Samer, ‘when you find Koenig you have to keep him talking. The moment you have him in sight we’ll run the search program.’

  ‘Ready?’ Baptiste asks. ‘Here we go, Rose. Good luck.’

  Rose taps the enter box. A blue torrent races towards her like a snake. It starts to spiral and she feels disorientated. She shuts her eyes as the light swallows her up . . .

  63.

  When Rose opens her eyes she’s looking down at black military-style boots on gravel made up of repeating tiles. Amazed, she holds out her hands. Instead of her small, delicate palms, she sees those of a large, powerfully built man. She turns them over and can see ‘HATE’ tattooed below her right knuckles. She feels bigger too – her centre of gravity is higher and her body is heavier.

  She takes a few awkward steps in this new physique. ‘Whoa . . .’

  She notices the deepness of her male voice. Moving forward, she lumbers towards the heaving bustle of Stream Square. She sees exaggeratedly beautiful women and muscular men repeated ad infinitum. They all have smooth, shiny skin. She reaches the square, one of the many meeting points in the StreamPlex. The square is tinted in attractive shades of blue, pastel colours with sparkling highlights. But Rose has no time for this. She must find Koenig, and save Jeff.

  She taps on a map screen, enlarges it. She sees a small blue map fade into view on the left of her visor. She’s got various information feeds, text and map icons flashing.

  ‘Is there any way we can check who’s a real person in here and who isn’t?’ she asks.

  ‘Not by just looking at them,’ says Brennan. ‘The StreamPlex’s selling point is a certain level of privacy. You can usually tell from their behaviour, though, whether they are real or bots.’

  Rose paces quickly through the square. She sees a large billboard on top of a tall curved building in the distance opposite a freeway lane. It reads:

  Keller: Citizen not Politician

  (Online advert paid for by the campaign to elect

  Senator Keller)

  To her left, in the business district, she sees a small version of Capitol Steps, where a line has formed to ask questions of a digital Keller, one on one.

  It’s the size of a small city, Rose realizes with amazement.

  She consults her map, crossing the road. She looks up to see a woman in front of her wearing a white dress. Rose walks through her by accident and the avatar ripples and shimmers.

  ‘Hello, Des Troy. I am one of the Nymphs. Welcome to the StreamPlex.’

  ‘Can’t I skip all this? It’s slowing me down,’ Rose asks.

  ‘Nope,’ Samer replies. ‘She’s an automated welcome bot and she’s also a cookie, feeding data about you to the advertising engines in the StreamPlex. Try not to “like” anything. It starts automatically filtering your StreamPlex view, otherwise, which is not what you need.’

  ‘What brings you to the StreamPlex?’ the Nymph asks.

  ‘I’m trying to find the quickest way to Erotix.’

  The Nymph considers Rose for a moment and points. Then her gaze becomes vacant. Rose notices the other avatars around her slowing to a languid pace. She looks up at the sky and sees the clouds turning into block-like shapes.

  ‘Guys, what’s happening?’ Rose asks.

  ‘Lag,’ Brennan says. ‘When a large number of users log on, it can cause glitches like low frame rate, slow gravity, voice distortions, that sort of thing. Should catch up in a sec, but we are heading into peak time now.’

  The Nymph suddenly speaks incomprehensibly fast before jerking her thumb behind her.

  ‘Route-route-route-route . . .’

  Her torso and arms jitter back and forth, caught in a gesturing loop before stabilizing. But Rose has already walked on by.

  ‘We’ve got a few minutes before Rose gets to Erotix,’ Owen says. ‘We need that background detail reloaded and airtight. No pressure, guys.’

  Owen and Baptiste watch as Brennan and Samer open Rose’s profile menu. Brennan uploads a composite picture of Brennan and Maynard merged together and digitally altered. Brennan changes Rose’s profile to Des Troy, sets up a Facebook account, with likes and some interests. Samer sets up an email account, browses a few searches.

  ‘What are you guys doing?’ Baptiste asks.

  ‘Creating pocket litter,’ Samer says.

  ‘Pocket litter?’

  Owen nods: ‘It’s like physical items that add authenticity to a spy’s cover. So in this case: search histories, email accounts, downloads and so on.’

  Samer plugs a USB cable into the back of his laptop, fingers gliding across keys. ‘I’m also setting up a simple Stream proxy server. So anyone searching using the proxy can contribute to Des’s online presence. Anyone who browses is funnelling traffic through it, looking like Des himself has been searching. I’m using the ones already hooked up to the Swarm. There are thousands of computers on it – shouldn’t take longer than a few minutes. From what I found out about the Skin on WS’s network, their advertising engines scan your body by default for signs of pleasure when reacting to stimulus. The
ir searches are normally fairly shallow, so Rose should be OK.’

  ‘Jesus,’ curses Baptiste. ‘That’s all we are now, isn’t it? Devices for buying things.’

  Samer nods. ‘Not much more than that.’

  Meanwhile, Brennan downloads some holiday snaps from Flickr, tweaking them slightly before re-uploading them, and checks in at a few locations around the country.

  ‘Voilà. Your fake Streamer profile is born. Should take care of any security algorithms that come calling.’

  Owen’s attention turns to the screen. ‘Looks like Rose is about to enter Erotix . . .’

  64.

  Jeff is in pain. He cannot move; his muscles seem to be of no use to him. He tries to take the damn visor off, but his arms are constrained at his sides, like they are encased inside steel. In the Stream, his body is tightly buried in sand, his head the only part above ground. He can see the shoreline in front of him and the pier on his left. He grunts and squirms, trying to raise himself to a seated position, but no matter how hard he strains against the suit it paralyses him with even greater force. Only when he is completely relaxed does the suit yield.

  Jeff’s heart pounds into a full-blown panic attack as he realizes he may be stuck in this suit for quite a long time. He takes deep breaths to calm his mind.

  Just a technical glitch. It’ll be resolved soon.

  Eventually his heart rate stabilizes.

  Worst-case scenario, he could be found by the hotel cleaner tomorrow morning. All he has to do is sit it out.

  Shit. I put the ‘Do not disturb’ sign up.

  Fuck.

  Jeff feels ashamed. He’ll miss Keller’s debate, which will piss the senator off. He is starting to feel shame over caving into his darker sexual urges. The damn suit was bought so he could have a fling without hurting anyone, and now he’s locked inside it.

  He’s helpless and alone. And angry with himself.

  He soon becomes aware of new, disturbing sensations. Pins and needles in his arms and legs. A strange iron-like taste in his mouth. Confusion. His hands clench tightly into fists, digging the nails deep into his palms, writhing through long minutes, the neural pathways and veins in his head stinging, like they are being cut with microscopic razor blades. His vision wavers.

  ‘Please, no. Not this . . .’ he whispers. ‘I don’t want to die in here.’

  65.

  Rose reaches the high black door of the Erotix mansion, where two suited burly bouncers stand.

  ‘Name?’ one demands.

  She holds out her left arm, slapping her bicep. ‘This is Des’ – she slaps her right bicep – ‘and this is Troy.’ She flexes both her arms in a muscle pose. ‘And together we DesTroy.’

  They stare at her without blinking, their faces blank.

  ‘Genius, Rose, keep it up,’ Owen says on the comms link.

  Rose glares at the bouncers. ‘Come on, let me in.’

  ‘They’re bots, running a check on you. I’ve uploaded your background info – it should all check out,’ Samer says.

  The guard wearing sunglasses nods, pulls out a sleek black metal wristband and slides it around Rose’s meaty wrist.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Erotix guarantees your privacy and anonymity. You can’t be traced inside.’

  ‘In a world of surveillance, anonymity is the new luxury,’ Brennan comments.

  The other guard pushes the mansion door open.

  ‘Welcome to Erotix. Careful,’ the guard leans closer to Rose, ‘you may not want to leave.’

  Rose smiles awkwardly before entering. She makes her way down the narrow corridor.

  ‘Well done, Rose.’

  She reaches the atrium of a virtual brothel. In the centre of the room is a massive pair of open silver legs supported by neon pink heels. Female sexbots in glowing body suits dance around. Everywhere there are people dressed predominantly in lurid clothing – heavy S & M, leather, latex – and sporting tattoos.

  Rose watches as a bearded man wearing sunglasses and a reflective chrome fetish suit consisting of countless protruding rubber nodules walks his ‘dogs’: three S & M women on leashes crawling on all fours.

  She is starting to feel nauseous at the gross representations of women that surround her.

  ‘Hey, Des . . . Like what you see?’ a young-looking sexbot asks, puppy-eyed.

  ‘Er, no. Thank you,’ Rose murmurs.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she says, flashing a smile.

  ‘Wanna fuck me, Des?’ asks another brunette bot. She asks again, but this time there is no sound emanating from her mouth.

  ‘Rose, I just muted the sounds for a while, give us some space to think,’ Brennan says.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rose says. Here, anything goes, the sexbots will never tire, never age and will do anything to please you. She hopes this isn’t where Jeff was that time, but in the pit of her stomach she knows it is.

  When we get out of here, Jeff and I need to talk, Rose decides.

  ‘Those crawlers are likely to be automated bots, programmed to take money and simulate sex with the user,’ Owen observes. ‘You may have to play along to get taken to where the rooms are.’

  ‘OK,’ Rose says, and Brennan restores the sound. Rose turns to the nearest bot. A small, black-haired Asian with enlarged breasts.

  The bot smiles. ‘Hello, my name’s Crystal.’

  ‘Hey, you look beautiful. I want you,’ Rose says.

  Crystal’s gaze becomes vacant, blinking every few seconds.

  Cost: 10 jewels

  Proceed?

  Yes/No

  Rose enters her answer and Crystal takes Rose’s meaty hand, leading her down curved black steps into a dark, warren-like network of doors.

  ‘I’d like to go to room 77,’ Rose says.

  Crystal turns, smiling. ‘I’m sorry, but that room appears to be corrupted. This room is free.’ She reaches for the door handle of room 58, and enters. Rose follows.

  Crystal bends over the bed, showing Rose her rounded buttocks.

  ‘Er, Crystal, look . . .’ Rose says, feeling horribly uncomfortable.

  ‘What would you like to do?’

  ‘What are my . . . options?’ Rose asks.

  ‘Asphyxiation, role play, S & M, water—’

  ‘Role play!’ Rose says. ‘Yes, we’ll play a game. We’re going to play hide and seek. You stay here and I will be back in a moment.’

  ‘I am not familiar with that game. But I will comply.’

  ‘You wait here until I come back.’

  Crystal nods. ‘You have fifty-three minutes of your allotted time left.’

  Rose vacates the room. She walks along labyrinthine corridors. Small silver wall sconces light the way.

  63 . . . 64 . . .

  She scans the silver numbers mounted on each door.

  75 . . . 76 . . .

  Rose reaches the black door of room 77 . . .

  66.

  Room 77.

  Rose takes a breath, grips the handle. Rotates it left, then right. There’s a little haptic feedback and she senses a subtle click through her fingers.

  Thunk.

  The door is unlocked. She pushes and it swings open to reveal a large chamber lined with red drapes. A round bed dominates the centre of the room and a blonde woman is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring towards the door. A wavering motion beyond the bed attracts Rose’s attention and she catches shimmering glimpses of a beach, with waves breaking on the sand. It’s as if no decision has been made about where one virtual reality ends and another begins.

  The door slams shut behind her, making her jump.

  ‘Guys, something’s happening in here . . .’ she says.

  ‘Damn it! Our feeds are being cut. R
ose, be careful.’

  Rose looks around, but there’s no sign of any danger: ‘It’s all right. I’m all right. I can handle it. I’ll hit the escape if I need to. Just keep monitoring me as best you can.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Brennan says. ‘It’s your show . . . Video feed has gone.’

  Rose takes a step towards the blonde woman.

  ‘Losing audio feed. Rose?’

  ‘I’m all right. Trust me.’

  The audio link in her ear fades and she can hear only a faint, soft hiss, like breathing.

  The temperature in the room drops. Rose’s skin prickles with goosebumps. Then she feels it. Another presence. There’s someone else in the room. Standing right behind her.

  Her heart is pounding as she recalls the icy terror of the night she entered Koenig’s cabin, and she steels herself as she slowly turns around. But there is no Koenig. Instead she sees a small young woman in a plain red dress, her dull brown hair cut into a bob. She is pretty rather than beautiful. But there is no smile, no allure, just a dead stare as she steadily scrutinizes Rose’s avatar before her gaze returns to Rose’s face.

  ‘Special Agent Rose Blake. Hello.’

  ‘Koenig, I presume.’

  The woman holds Rose in her gaze.

  ‘Koenig . . . Where is Jeff? What have you done to him?’

  ‘That’s a nice disguise, Special Agent Blake. Now let’s see the real you.’

  Rose’s muscular shell dissolves into acid-blue pixels, revealing her true figure in a simple black Skin suit underneath. Strangely, she feels stripped bare and vulnerable rather than relieved to have returned to her real appearance.

  ‘You got me here, Koenig. It’s just you and me. Let Jeff go, then tell me what you want.’

  ‘I want to speak to you, Rose Blake. I want you to listen. There are things you must know. About the things I must do.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of your games, Koenig. You kill people for kicks. That’s what you do.’ Rose is playing for time, trying to give Samer a chance to start tracking Koenig to his connection in the real world.