Absorption: Ragnarok v. 1 (Ragnarock 1)

by John Meaney

  ‘I’ll see you in my teaching room tomorrow morning,’ said Helsen. ‘Seven fifteen, everyone.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘Doctor.’

  ‘Ma’am . . . Uh, Doctor.’

  Helsen was the first to leave, descending the quickglass stalk on a single-person flowdisk. Then the others drifted away, while Roger remained staring down at the plaza. He watched as Helsen reached ground level and walked away.

  Just as she turned out of sight, black shards flickered in the air, twisted impossibly and were gone.

  Is this a test?

  But why would he feel such revulsion? This made no sense. Maybe Dad could explain - but he was facilitating those negotiations today, and besides, the point of going to college instead of studying virtually was to gain some adult independence, to strengthen the psychosocial skills that would let him make a career in the competitive world around him.

  Except I’m not like other people.

  He didn’t even know what he was. Perhaps he—

  ‘Interesting choice, Roger.’

  He jumped.

  ‘Uh, Alisha. Um, thanks for having confidence in me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Voting for me to choose, of course.’

  ‘You thought that was a compliment, picking the quiet one?’

  ‘I - don’t know.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  She broke eye contact, then walked toward the nearest flowdisk without a glance back at him. He could only stand watching as she descended, then walked off in the opposite direction to Helsen. The other students were already gone, including Rick, who had seemed so sociable.

  ‘So this is going well,’ he said to the empty balcony.

  Then the tabletop spoke up.

  ‘The bill for seven drinks is outstanding. Do you wish to pay now?’

  He sighed.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  In the evening, Rick suggested they play cops and robbers.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Stef. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘When you can’t tell the difference between avatars and in-scenario characters, it can be sort of fun.’

  ‘Then we should’ve chosen Chicago,’ said Trudi. ‘Shouldn’t you, Roger?’

  ‘I have no idea. My brain is dead.’

  ‘So you need some stimulation.’ Rick looked around the group. ‘Agreed?’

  Around them the walls glowed soft pastels, while couches and chairs to individual taste had morphed from the floor. This was the communal lounge of their house, and their work on the Zürich simulation was finished. At least, none of them wanted to do any more.

  ‘Why not?’ said Stef.

  Within two minutes, all six of them were standing in their own forms in a cobbled street on a foggy winter afternoon, their surroundings lit by hissing gaslamps. There were pedestrians - men in frock coats, women in bustling dresses that covered their ankles - none of whom saw the students. Some of the passers-by were speaking, their words translated but their tonality rendered with historical accuracy, along with their speed of movement.

  ‘They’re so slow,’ said Trudi. ‘The way they walk, and especially the way they talk. Do you think the records are really correct?’

  ‘After verification by twenty-two independent and loosely dependent methods,’ answered Alisha, ‘the analyses are trustworthy enough.’

  Rick looked at Roger and raised an eyebrow. Clearly the group’s Luculenta-to-be was Alisha. Her expression was tightening, no doubt understanding their silent communication and not liking it.

  ‘Why don’t you three’ - her gesture passed across Rick, Roger and Trude - ‘commit some crime, while Stef, Angela and I take you down?’

  ‘That’s hardly specific,’ said Rick. ‘Some crime?’

  ‘Anything you like, anywhere in the city. To escape, to achieve game over, you need to get on board a train - any train - at the Hauptbahnhof or one of the minor stations. That’s how you hypothetically might win, while our goal is to arrest you. It’s not like you’re going to be hard to catch.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘So we’ll decamp and let you plan. Ten minutes long enough?’

  Rick mouthed the word decamp.

  Trudi spoke up. ‘It sure is.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave you to it.’

  At that, Alisha, Angela and Stef disappeared. They might remain close in reality, but they would now be in some other part of the simulation, perhaps in whatever passed for Police HQ. Roger wished he’d spent more time on the city’s geography, but he’d been working on persona templates for the city’s virtual inhabitants, and two of the generics had crashed with paracognitive failures that took ages to debug.

  This was a city where banks proliferated, and soon Trudi and Rick - more aware than Roger of the simulation’s topography - had picked a branch of the Greater Helvetian to rob. Part of the game was to don avatars that would remain for the duration. Soon all three of them were portly gentlemen with extravagant moustaches and silk waistcoats beneath their frock coats, and revolvers weighing down their pockets.

  ‘And switch,’ said Rick.

  They were standing in front of the Rathaus, the city hall, which stood on the river’s edge. The waters of the Limmat were black. This time of year, it was often frozen over.

  ‘This way.’ Rick led, followed by Trudi.

  Roger enjoyed the uphill walk as they climbed a narrow road formed with large irregular stones too large to be called cobbles. The grey stone buildings on either side looked old, some perhaps dating back to the Middle Ages. In reality, the gradient was a product of a morphing, flowing quickglass floor, and the image of the buildings was lased in to his smartlenses.

  Antisound would ensure that the two teams could not hear each other.

  Then they were entering the gloomy bank branch.

  The robbery itself was exciting but straightforward, as the three of them produced revolvers and threatened staff, who obeyed their instructions and handed over the bags of cash. The money-bags felt tangible and heavy, the effect produced by their clothing - their sleeves had elongated to form gloves - responding to magnetic induction that tugged downward in a high-fidelity simulation. Within minutes of stumbling from the building, Rick and Trudi were puffing, while Roger could already feel his forearms burning from the weight.

  Struggling uphill past the cathedral-like Frauenkirche, they became aware of police whistles behind them. Rick grinned.

  ‘The game is afoot, gentlemen. Excuse me, Trudi.’

  ‘You’re excused.’ Her feminine voice issued from her overweight male avatar. ‘I don’t think I can move any faster, though.’

  ‘Me neither. How about you, Roger?’

  ‘It’s tough.’

  Passers-by were pointing at them as they hurried.

  ‘We should’ve stolen diamonds,’ gasped Rick. ‘Would’ve weighed practically nothing.’

  ‘Now you think of it,’ said Trudi.

  There was a rattle of trams from up ahead, then more police whistles.

  ‘Crap. They’re closing in.’

  Roger caught a glimpse of dark uniforms, just as Rick and Trudi staggered left into a narrow cross-street. Then he stopped, a second before Rick did likewise.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Rick. ‘It’s a dead end.’

  Nicely played, Alisha.

  She must have worked out where they were fleeing, and held back from the sounding the whistles until herding them here. Now they were trapped.

  ‘We go into one of the shops,’ said Trudi. ‘Try to get out through the back.’

  ‘No.’ Roger hefted his money bags. ‘This way.’

  He pushed the pace into a near sprint. Behind him, Rick and Trudi muttered. Beyond a buttress he hauled left, into a tiny space between two buildings.

  ‘Huh,’ said Rick.

  Then they were following a narrow lane parallel to the street. Unable to hold bags out to the side, they had to move awkwardly. Soon Roger’s should
ers were filled with pain, and he was finding it hard to breathe. Behind him, Rick and Trudi were struggling.

  But after a time the sound of whistles diminished, and then they were following a descending route down a wider road where trams clanged along shining tracks.

  ‘There,’ said Roger. ‘That’s Alisha.’

  He pointed to a thin man in civilian clothes standing down on the bridge across the Limmat. The Alisha-avatar - no doubt a senior police officer - was facing away from them, and he pulled the other two behind a tram stop just before the avatar turned. After a few seconds, Roger peeked out, and when the time was right he led the other two across the street.

  Then they circled around the magnificent Hauptbahnhof, and jumped down on to the tracks. No one cried out or whistled as they stumbled towards an empty train. Roger pulled open a carriage door and threw the money-bags inside. Then he boosted Trudi up the step and through the door, followed by Rick.

  Ten seconds later, he was inside as well and pulling the door shut.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Rick. ‘Game over.’

  Everything shimmered around them. Roger closed his eyes, then opened them to see the lounge in their student house, while he, Rick and Trudi were sitting on quickglass seats extruded by the floor. Alisha, Angela and Stef were standing, facing in various directions. They turned.

  ‘Well played,’ said Alisha. ‘Considering our team had the greater knowledge of the city’s layout, you dodged us far more easily than expected.’

  ‘You call that easy?’ Rick was rubbing his arms and shoulders. ‘My God, it was painful.’

  Trudi gestured. ‘It was Roger who found a hidden alleyway. And spotted you, Alisha, outside the station.’

  ‘You saw through my avatar?’

  ‘Uh . . . Yeah,’ said Roger.

  ‘Interesting.’ Alisha blinked several times. ‘I’m looking at your escape route now. How did you know that alley was there? The road appeared to be a dead end.’

  ‘It was instinct.’

  Alisha looked at him. ‘If you say so.’

  So how did I know?

  He tried to blank his expression, but could not tell if he succeeded. Then Stef was ordering the room to serve daistral, and everyone got busy with refreshing themselves, while Alisha continued to glance at him, and he grew increasingly puzzled by his own ability to navigate the hidden byways of 1920s Zürich, a simulation of a period he had never studied, on a world he had never visited.

  Correction: an historically accurate simulation, verified by twenty-two different methods, according to Alisha. And she was a near-Luculenta, therefore impossible to beat in a game situation, or so he would have thought.

  SIX

  EARTH-CLASS EXPLORATORY EM-0036, 2146 AD

  Rekka Chandri woke from delta-coma with a headache. All around, the rest of the pre-contact team seemed fresh-eyed, their voices energetic as they sat up on couches and greeted each other. They were in a spartan cargo hold that made no attempt to emulate a comfortable passenger lounge. Nor was there any greeting from the unseen Pilot who had navigated them through mu-space to here.

  But she was offworld, in orbit around a new planet for the first time.

  ‘Hey, Rekka,’ called Mary Stelanko, the team leader. ‘Are you okay?’

  The others were checking holo displays, conversation suspended, ensuring their equipment was intact. Acting professional: maybe Rekka ought to do the same.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll just check my autofact has survived.’

  Tapping a display into being, she ran a status check, then powered down the kit.

  ‘All right.’ Mary clapped her hands together. ‘I’m not going to tell you to be careful down there, just as there’s no way I’m going to threaten you with dire consequences if you make contact—’

  ‘I’m glad you’re not telling us that,’ said Lucy Chiang, to laughter.

  ‘—or with even worse penalties if you do make accidental contact and not do it right, because I expect professionalism at all times.’

  Amid catcalls, Ralph Antero said: ‘You sure you got the right team, Mary? Professionals? Us?’

  ‘Whoop it up now, because down on the surface you’ll be all alone and quiet as mice. All right, everyone?’

  ‘Were mice quiet?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘I thought you had to click them,’ said Ralph. ‘But history was never my subject.’

  Mary smiled, relaxing her shoulders, holding her hands at hip height, palms down. The room quietened.

  ‘Be careful, be watchful, be safe.’

  ‘You got it, boss.’

  ‘Let’s get to the drop-bugs.’

  Penrose tiles fluttered back as a bulkhead dissolved like leaves in a wind. Beyond lay an array of one-person capsules, dark-grey and glossy, ready to launch.

  Oh God, I’m scared.

  Then Mary’s hand pressed upon her shoulder, and she stepped forward, heading for her drop-bug.

  Soon she would be on a new world, fending for herself, observing.

  As Sharp walked alongside Father he was excited, almost dancing. For Father’s presence was formidable: broad shoulders and dark fur, square jaw, massive spreading antlers. Few Mint City dwellers emitted such a sense of presence. Smooth-foreheaded women glanced from beneath their veils, their amber eyes widening in horizontal slits, unconsciously reacting.

  Some day Sharp would have antlers of his own. That notion brought strange feelings whirling inside him.

  Then they were in the market square. Such a bustle of individuals! A thousand folk from dozens of castes thronged the temporary booths and huts and stalls, their scents an overwhelming kaleidoscope of exotic and pungent fragrances. The place was so crowded, you could almost hear the people.

  Father’s tunic was his best: shining white, edged with brocade, decorated with overlapping triangles to denote the Geometers Caste. By chance, a group of Mint City Geometers was passing before them, their tunics less formal, attending to everyday business. Seeing Father, they paused; but Father, as a visitor from an outlying borough, waved them on. They bowed, antlers dipping, then continued past.

  With the ceremony forthcoming, Father must be drenched with urgency; yet his manners were perfect. Sharp felt so very proud.

  Beyond the square, they took a shadowed alleyway. From last year’s visit, he remembered that this was a shortcut to the Forum. He hurried, matching Father’s quickening pace. From a doorway he caught a faint scent, stale and embarrassing: one of the house daughters had illicitly entertained a young warrior here, perhaps one of the City Guard. Father strode on, perhaps not noticing.

  ~Dad? Are you . . . scared?

  The answering scent was strong and reassuring.

  ~Everything will be fine. With my son here, how could it not be?

  Coming out into sunlight, they crossed Central Plaza, a circular expanse paved with shards of turquoise and white. A few merchants and household ladies were walking here, no one else. Sharp opened his mouth, belatedly noticing the aftertaste of Father’s reply, the involuntary fear he had tried to mask.

  Then they were at the broad steps leading up to the Forum.

  Bannermen fell in to either side, accompanying them as they climbed. Scarlet-and-gold banners flapped in the breeze. The smell of oil rose from leather scabbards and the polished blades they enclosed. Once inside the shaded atrium, where wall-mounted plants scented cooler air, the bannermen moved away. All around were alcoves with odour-absorbing hangings, set there for confidential conversations between lobbyists and councillors. Sharp held his breath out of politeness.

  Two servants hurried past with covered meal-pots, and Father emitted faint amusement. Not one to make fun of lower castes, he was probably thinking of yesterday morning as all four of them - Mother and Bittersweet in the cart, Sharp and Father walking alongside - came into sight of the city walls.

  Because to one side, in a village with open courtyards, a poor family had been eating their vegetables in full sight of anyone who happened to
pass by. To Sharp it had been disgusting; but Bittersweet, young brat that she was, had jumped around on the cart, pointing and making fun. It took Mother to stop her, with a frigid declaration that poverty was nothing to joke about.

  Bittersweet could be such a pain, but part of Sharp wished she could be here too, to drink in the scents and sights of the Mint City Forum, to see the straight-backed bureaucrats and officials who—