Atlas Alone

by Emma Newman

  Then I’m looking at the piles of scavenged clothes, drifts of detritus hoarded by the terrified child I was back then. No dolls. No bear or others. A knife. A tool set, stolen from another part of the basement. Half-empty bottles of vitamin tablets years out of date. A tub of engine grease, a bottle of machine oil and a pile of filthy rags. A clouded bottle of water. My view of it all blurs and I realize I am welling up, overwhelmed by how that time is expressed so perfectly in these little piles of smelly crap. My gaze drifts to the bundle of discarded carpet offcuts that formed my pillow and I wonder whether the necklace is underneath it.

  My hand is halfway to it before I stop myself. It really doesn’t matter if it is there or not. It really doesn’t. I tell myself a third time, just to make it true.

  Instead, I focus on the source of the blue light. It looks like a gemstone the size of my fist with a bright blue flame dancing inside it. It’s held in a rudimentary wire cage suspended from the roof of the nest and fills me with relief, rooting me back in the sure knowledge that this is the start of a game. A rectangle of card is tied loosely to one of the wire bars and I pull it free to read the handwritten message.

  If you want to know the answers you have to grasp the fire

  I smirk. Okay then, so we’re bringing a bit of old-school fantasy in? I’m cool with that. The bars of the cage are made of such thin wire it’s easy to prize a couple of them apart and fish out the gem inside. It’s pleasantly warm to the touch and the movement of the flame within is quite hypnotic. The gem feels solid and heavy in my hand. Do I take it out and throw it onto the concrete to release the flame? I crawl out of the nest and stand up, weighing my options. Grasp the fire . . . I squeeze the gemstone and it shatters in my hand.

  Shards of crystal puncture the skin of my palm and I yelp in pain, opening my hand to pull them free. There’s nothing there. No crystal, no flame, no light. Just my own blood oozing from a deep gash. Well, shit. I grab one of the rags and wrap it around my hand, watching the blood soak the cloth. It’s throbbing a bit too realistically for my liking. I try to call up the settings in the usual way by flicking my right index finger up like I am scrolling an old tablet screen, but nothing happens.

  “Ada?” My APA doesn’t respond. Now, that just isn’t right. Locking me out of standard interfaces without warning is a shit move.

  “Dee Dee?” A voice calls my name from the other side of the room and from thirty years ago. My bear is there, waving, looking ludicrously cute. Without even thinking, I find myself waving back eagerly, like I did as a child.

  “Do you need help, Dee Dee?”

  This is the help interface? Jesus and Muh—

  “Yes!” I hurry over to him and pick him up, crushing him to my chest. He’s smaller than I remember. Or am I just bigger? Then he feels just right. I bury my face in his brown fur, my tears soaking into it. “Bobby Bear,” I whisper. “I’ve missed you so much!”

  “I’m here now,” he says. “What did you need help with?”

  “Oh . . . I . . .” Struggling to recall the reason, I sit on one of the low horizontal pipes that was usually warm and find that it’s another detail perfectly reproduced. I position Bobby on my knee, like I would a child who wants to see the room we sit in. He looks up at me with those huge eyes of his. I see that they are plastic, that they are merely child-friendly covers for the cam lenses behind them, but to me they are just his eyes. The tiny motors beneath the fur of his face move his features into a smile and I return it. Then the throb in my hand reasserts itself. “Yeah, I wanted to take a look at the settings, see if I could dial down the pain.” I show him my bandaged hand.

  “Ooooh, that looks like a bad boo-boo,” he says sympathetically. “There aren’t any settings to make that less painful. Actions have consequences, Dee Dee. Didn’t we talk about that a lot?”

  His words chill me. It really is like my Bobby Bear. But how can it be? The data he gathered over my childhood was never uploaded to my first neural chip. But then, bears probably talk to kids about consequences a lot.

  “Seriously? Isn’t this supposed to be a game?”

  “Ah, but the best games have risk, Dee Dee. You know that.”

  Risk? “This hasn’t hurt me in meatspace, has it?”

  Bobby laughs, the perfect reproduction of that low growl and childlike giggle I loved so much. “Of course not! Are you scared?”

  I find myself pouting like I did as a child. “I am not.”

  Bobby pats my arm with a paw, just like he used to. “That’s my Dee Dee.”

  “How do I leave the game?”

  His little fur eyebrows knit together in the middle. “You want to?”

  I shrug, undecided. “I dunno. It’s . . .”

  “Don’t leave yet, Dee Dee. You have important things to do here. You want to know the answers, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have hurt your hand.”

  I look at the blood drying on the bandage. Like some fucking n00b I smashed it with my right hand. Should have used my left. Like those idiots in mersives who have to make a blood sacrifice and slice open their palm, where the wound will be the most inconvenient, instead of the outside of their arm or something. “But I can leave when I want to?”

  “Of course you can. Just ask me and I’ll show you the way out. But don’t run away. Choose to leave when you’re done here. Okay?”

  This is too serious. Too real. I’m about to tell him to show me out when I hear a shout from up the stairwell in the next room. My first instinct is to run back into my nest, to give the automatic lights time to dim back out before anyone appears at the doorway. I’m flooded with memories of keeping the pipes in order, of greasing up things that moved and squeaked, knowing that if they wore through, maintenance people or drones would come down and investigate. Eventually there were no staff or drones to worry about, but I didn’t know why. And that had nearly got me killed.

  “Aren’t you going to see who that is, Dee Dee?”

  Ah, the NPC is steering me toward the next plot point. “I’m not sure I want them to know I’m down here.”

  “Why not?” he asks, and then points at the nest. “You don’t live there anymore, remember? You’re not doing anything wrong.”

  This is so fucked up, but I stand and set him down on the floor. “You coming with me?”

  He smiles, showing off those pointed felt teeth I remember so well. “My legs are shorter than yours. You go on ahead. If you need me, just call.”

  I don’t want to leave him. I never wanted to the first time. How many times did I imagine him calling for me after I abandoned the apartment? How many times did I sob in that nest, worrying about what had happened to him? “Bobby . . . what happened to you, after I left? Were you okay?”

  “I was fine,” he says softly. “I went and had adventures.”

  I burst into tears. What the fuck is this shitty game anyway? “I’m sorry I had to leave you behind.” I sob like a child, like the child I was back then, all raw and far too emotional. “There were flies . . . everywhere . . .”

  He comes over and wraps his arms around my leg. “I know you had to and it’s okay. It kept you safe. I understand that. And I wanted you to be safe. So everything’s okay. Isn’t it?”

  I couldn’t have stayed there. Of course not. And I was a kid; I had no idea what would happen to my father’s body and— I cut the thought off as quickly as I can. “Yeah,” I say, wiping my wet face with the backs of my sleeves. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  He lets go of my leg and I can’t reconcile the need to leave with the desire to stay with him, making me hesitate until I finally force myself forward. Then I feel better. This is what I’ve always done, forced myself forward, no matter how much some childish, weak part of me wanted to stay with whoever made me feel safe at the time. It’s probably good that I left Bobby behind. That way I never grew out of him. He never had the chance to d
isappoint me, or betray me, or simply let me down like everyone else.

  I go through the door in the far corner on the opposite side of the room from my nest. The space beyond is as I remember: a storage area for the huge barrels of chemicals used to purify the water, and the machines used to maintain the building’s air-conditioning system. At least, that’s what I thought those chemicals were for; I could have been wrong back then.

  Light is spilling down the concrete steps at the far end of the room, the ones that lead up to the ground-floor lobby, through the open door leading to the concierge’s office. A shadow in the doorway makes me pause. I spent so long trying to avoid the man in that office, the instinct is still strong.

  “Hello? Is there anyone down there? I need some help.”

  It’s not the concierge’s voice. But it is familiar. The temptation to come up from this mersive is strong again, but I want the answers that gem promised, so I step forward to the edge of the light and raise a hand. “Hi.”

  “Deanna? Is that you?”

  The sound of my full name makes my body jerk in surprise. I haven’t heard it for so long. And never in a game. I don’t play games to be myself, for fuck’s sake! I’m going to have some sharp feedback for the game designer when I am done!

  “Yes, it’s me,” I reply, walking to the steps. With the light behind him, his face is in shadow. “I’m sorry, I can’t see who you are.”

  “I’m Kam, from number 22. We check the postboxes at the same time. Remember me?”

  And then I do, in a rush of memories filled with him lifting me up so I could tap in the key code on my parents’ postal box up on the top row. A kind man who wore a turban and carried a kirpan tucked into his belt, who on his birthday gave me special handmade sweets that were sticky and moist with sweet syrup. He was the first one to come and check on me when the riots started. “Kam!” I cheer, racing up the steps to embrace him, his beard tickling my neck. I am nearly as tall as him now, his broad shoulders no longer as impressive to me as they once were.

  “Little Deanna, how you’ve grown! What are you doing down there? That’s no place for you!”

  I study his face, looking for some sort of detail that’s out of place. I don’t find anything, but then, I only knew this man when I was a child. I wouldn’t know if this representation has inaccuracies. He has the same kind eyes that I remember though, and I check that his steel bracelet is there as I remember. It is. Has the programmer found mersives recorded by the people who lived in this building? How was consent obtained to view them, let alone use them this way? Besides, they were likely lost in the nuclear war. But now isn’t the time to figure it out; I’ll play through and then quiz him. “I was just exploring. What do you need help with?”

  “Something bad is happening on the top floor, but I can’t get up there to help.”

  I shiver. “The riots?” The electricity was cut and the adults barricaded the stairwell when those were at their worst.

  “No, no. They were a long time ago. When you were a child, remember?”

  He’s acting like he’s known me as an adult. This weird mix of accuracy and inconsistencies feels dreamlike. “I remember,” I say, hoping it will unlock some more dialog.

  I remember those riots all too well. How quickly they got out of control, how there were sirens and the smell of smoke for days before things got really bad. Now they’re just a footnote in history, mentioned in passing when people talk about the end of democracy. Or rather, the final nail in its coffin. Society had been breaking down for a long time. The riots were just its last rattling breath before the corporations made their final play and bought out the government. Like well-dressed vultures, they tore the carcass apart and gobbled it down in pieces, locking us all into their vision of how society should be: hierarchical, with clearly defined pay grades and no place for anyone who didn’t want to be a diligent consumer. “So, someone has barricaded the stairwell?” I ask, not wanting to brood upon all that shit right now.

  He doesn’t answer that. Strange—even the most basic gaming AIs can adapt to conversations far more sophisticated than this. Then I realize he hasn’t responded because whatever is in the stairwell has made him uncomfortable. Not afraid though. “The lifts aren’t working,” he finally says. “There’s no electricity.”

  Another shiver. It’s sounding more like the time after the riots, and I don’t want to experience that again. I look behind him and see that the light is coming through windows that never existed in the real concierge’s office. This gives me hope; if the building isn’t an exact replica of the one I grew up in, it won’t be as bad as I fear.

  But why put real people I used to know in this game? There are rules against this sort of thing, but then again, those rules only apply to those who are famous enough to need to legally protect their own likenesses and who have the money to pay lawyers to defend them. Shouldn’t there have been some sort of warning, at least? Some guidance in the loading area to prepare me for all of this? If that starting corridor even was a loading area. I don’t like how it keeps me off-balance all the time; there are none of the usual markers that ease me in and out of games. Games have evolved an incredible amount in my lifetime alone, but the foundations have stayed the same, the underlying framework. This “game” has pulled that out from under me. I hadn’t appreciated how much my comfort depended on those behavioral cues until now.

  Then I remember the way that box appeared in my virtual office and the designer’s obvious disregard of boundaries. I knew it would be problematic, based on what I saw in our brief interaction, and I went ahead anyway. I don’t have the right to complain. Do I?

  Kam is waiting for my answer. “You want me to go up and take a look?”

  He nods.

  “How many floors up?”

  “Twenty.”

  Just like where I grew up. Filled with too much energy for apartment living, I used to run up and down the stairwell when I collected the post. The designer said this game would help me to reach my goals. Is it set up like a leet server game, where my own fitness will determine my progress up those stairs? At least it won’t be so tough now, as I am much fitter than I was a year ago. Only one way to find out.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, expecting some sort of ping from Ada to tell me that a new quest has been added, but there’s nothing. It’s been set up like one, from those old-school games that have endured for decades, so it surprises me that nothing appears. Perhaps Bobby has stored it, ready in case I ask him. Yeah, that makes sense. It would be more internally consistent. “You stay down here, Kam, okay? It seems safe. Can you tell me anything more?”

  He shakes his head. Just an intro NPC, then. “Be careful. It’s dangerous.”

  I give him my best brave smile and he steps aside. I emerge from the stairwell entrance into the concierge’s office, confused by the fact that the windows are too high to look out of, as if they have been placed there for letting in light alone. Normally such a minor detail wouldn’t bother me, but it’s jarring when juxtaposed with perfectly reproduced environments.

  There isn’t much of note in here. A couple of comfortable chairs and a smart wall, which is dead. There’s a cupboard with closed doors. The concierge managed everything through his chip, so there was no need for any paperwork. It was only because of the fact that this was once an exclusive apartment block that he had a job here at all. Most blocks didn’t, the building residents more than capable of living a privileged life without an actual human being as their interface. I know my mother hated the fact that there was a human concierge here; she always complained about how nosy he was, how much he tried to weasel his way into the lives of everyone here. I recall my father having a very different view of it all. But then, he was born into that world where keeping human staff was a sign of status, and he couldn’t understand why my mother thought it was crass.

  It’s been so long since I thought about t
hem together and alive, I find myself just standing here, staring into space. This feels more like a bloody flashback than a game. I shake my hands and arms, roll my shoulders. Come on, your memories aren’t that interesting, I tell myself. I’m not going to stand here wallowing.

  I march out of the room, coming out into the lobby with the correct marble floor, the correct windows, the entrances to the elevators right where I expect them. But the view outside the windows makes me do a double take. It’s not the one that should be there; it’s the one from the network headquarters I used to work in before Rapture. There’s the Thames, Blackfriars Bridge stretching across it on a misty morning. There are no leaves on the trees. Did the designer just not have footage of the other apartment blocks that I should be seeing out of these windows?

  “Oh, just fucking leave it,” I say to myself. The worst thing about this bloody game is trying to figure it out on a metalevel. I need to knuckle down and get on with twatting whatever it is upstairs.

  Kam said it would be dangerous, which usually means I need a weapon. There’s nothing useful here, unless I try to smash up one of the nice sofas and salvage something. Then I remember the cupboard in the concierge’s office. “C’mon, Dee,” I say to myself. “Stop playing like a bloody n00b.”

  It’s not locked. There’s a first aid kit, a toolbox and a torch. I laugh. Now it feels like a proper game.

  I clean up my hand, put some numbing wound sealant on it and pocket the torch. There’s a hammer in the toolbox, and a large wrench, but both require getting up close and personal with the big bad and I’m not too keen on doing that. I take the hammer and tuck it into my belt. Only then does it occur to me to look down at what I’m wearing.

  Jeans and a black T-shirt I haven’t worn for twenty years. The belt is black leather, with a simple buckle, the jeans baggy with the ends of the legs dipped in a pearlescent dye that was the fashion then. The T-shirt says, in small writing, “If you can read this you are a) too close and b) staring at my tits. Fuck off.” I had stolen it from one of the apartments on the third floor. Its former owner’s body had been in the bathroom, slumped over the toilet. Some sort of overdose, I reckon; I didn’t go to check. All I remember thinking was that it was a shame she’d died wearing the T-shirt with a fairy-tale princess flipping the bird at a knight in shining armor; otherwise I would have nicked that one too. I’d been stealing from her for months by then, ever since the day I’d found one of her wigs in the trash and realized I could get to her door and open it without worrying about the cameras if I wore it and kept my head down. I already knew the codes to all of the doors by then. Her printer kept me fed for one more week after I printed a stack and carried it down to the basement, the cameras nonfunctional by that point. When I went back for more, the smell had alerted the neighbors, her body had been removed and the door code changed.