Ashley’s right. The building is about as big and ugly as you can find in Hartford. It’s actually three buildings fused together by glass and metal and concrete. The central tower, right in front of me, is a monolithic structure of yellow stone with an uninspired grid of small windows. The placard next to me says the building was named in honor of some guy named Edwin Carcher, a real estate developer from around the turn of the century. The picture of him amuses me, with his plastic-looking hair and the two beauties on his arms. The building in the picture sparkles. In real life it just looks run down and neglected. Just like everything else these days.
The story that goes along with the picture says Carcher made billions selling coastal property. He got out just before the first floods hit the coastal cities nearly thirty years ago. After the waters receded, he bought all the property back at rock bottom prices, developed it again and sold it to the next generation of developers at a steep markup. Then the earthquake hit Europe and sent tsunamis across the Atlantic. Everything got swamped out again.
The writer of the story seemed to think that Edwin Carcher was some sort of prophet, that he was able to time his purchases and sales so perfectly that he must’ve somehow known. Maybe he was a prophet. Maybe he knew when disasters would strike. You’d think after the second time people would’ve stopped buying from him.
There’s quite a large crowd gathered by the time it opens to the public, people appearing out of nowhere, off transits from other parts of the state. It’s almost like the zombies on LI.
When I think this, a buzz of nervousness thrums through my body. It feels strange to be standing here with this secret, knowing where I was yesterday and what I saw and what happened. Nobody else here has any clue what it was like. Anyone who was there for the outbreak is either dead or became an Infected Undead. A lot of them are probably still there.
The doors finally open, and we all filter into the lobby. It’s slow going, since there’s only one security checkpoint and we all have to go through it. When I finally get to the front, the guard scans my implant and asks for my Link.
“I’m here to report it missing.”
Several people glance over at me, looks of surprise on their faces. Nobody loses a Link these days. It’s too much of a hassle to get a new one. Plus, it’s hard to imagine life without one. Our Links connect us to the world. Without them, functioning is so much harder. Also, losing a Link places you under intense scrutiny for weeks afterward.
The guard leers at me and snarls when he asks, “Lost or stolen?”
I choose an answer that hints at both and neither at the same time. “I was at the park and it must’ve fallen out of my pocket. When I went back to find it, it was gone.”
“No one would pick up someone else’s Link,” a little old woman standing behind me declares. She looks like she could be eighty, but I know that’s not possible. Everyone gets conscripted at sixty-five. Unless they have a waiver that is, like Grandpa. Maybe that’s it.
“Did you try tracing it, honey?” she asks. “That’s how I always find mine, when I can’t remember where I put it.”
“Yes. But it wasn’t traceable.”
“Oh. Oh dear, then. That doesn’t sound right.”
“Sixth floor,” the guard tells me, rolling his eyes. “Room eighteen. Off the elevator and to the right. Now move along.” He gives me a sour look as I pass through the screener. It beeps once, signifying that it has detected my implant and registered it. Behind me, I hear the guard ask the old woman what she’s here for.
“To get my implant,” she answers.
“Age?”
“Sixty five next week.”
“Cutting it close, aren’t you, mother?”
I don’t hear her answer.
“Link, please,” the guard says to her. I hear the scanner beep—a different beep than mine. Then he tells her, “Twenty-third floor. And, mother? Thank you for your service.”
I hang back so I can ride the elevator up with her, but she sees me and cuts into the restroom. I don’t know who’s in worse shape, her or me. She’s got a week to live. Me, depending on what happens with Kelly and Jake, it’s possible I could have even less than that. Unlikely, but possible.
I wait for the elevator and no one gives me a second look until I push the button for the sixth floor. Then they all seem to shy away from me a little bit. It makes me wonder how they could know. It makes me worry what they know.
When the doors open for my floor, I step stiffly through them. The people part for me as if I’m contagious. I find myself on the worn carpeting in the sixth floor elevator lobby, conscious of all the stares on the back of my head. No one follows me out. It’s just me. The doors close with a whoosh.
The hallway is empty, undecorated, stark and too-brightly lit with a bluish tinge. The lights flicker in sync, as if there’s a faulty wire somewhere. The walls are painted a neutral cream color to offset the blue, turning them a glaring white. There’s only one other door, so it’s not like I have to think about where to go.
As I step toward it, I notice the small, black, inverted dome of a security camera in the farthest corner. I wonder who might be watching me.
My footsteps on the carpet get swallowed up, so there’s not a sound. Nothing moves. Even the air seems reluctant to carry a scent.
The door is closed. It’s just a plain metal slab, painted blue and lacking windows. A large plastic number 618 is glued to the outside.
There are no instructions, no button to push, no speaker. I consider knocking. Instead, I try the doorknob. It turns.
The room inside is dark, but a light blinks on. It’s small, barely eight feet on each side. The walls are as bare as the ones in the hallway. There are no other doors, no windows. All I find is a single desk with a retractable screen. I move to see it better and it flickers on, showing me only the familiar ArcWare logo floating in a sea of blue and their catchphrase underneath: We serve the people.
“Have a seat, please.”
The genderless voice comes out of nowhere, neither loud, nor soft. A chime sounds, presumably confirmation of my identity by some scanning device.
“The interview will proceed momentarily.”
I sit at the desk and stare at the screen. The screen stares back.
There’s a beep. Then, “Personal Link replacement. Please provide appointment code.”
I recite the code I was given this morning by memory: “Gamma four alpha dash alpha thirteen.”
I wait. Nothing happens for a moment. Then:
“Please state your full name.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Incorrect response. Please state your full name.”
I say it. The voice begins asking me for my vital statistics—age, date of birth, parents, L.I.N.C. implant number. Then it stops again.
“This is your second personal Link replacement.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.
My first Link was lost when I was thirteen. I’d barely had it for a month by then. Eric had just been discharged from the Marines and wanted to take me to Seattle. He didn’t explain why until later, but I sort of guessed he wanted to get us as far away from the East Coast as he could, as far away from the Undead as the government would allow him. Away from the outbreaks.
The South was out of the question, since we were at war with both Texas and Mexico at the time, and the Midwest was one enormous big dustbowl. Everyone said Seattle was still a nice place, a lot like it had been back before Reanimation was invented. Before global warming.
But when we got there, it became obvious very quickly that Seattle wasn’t going to be any better than New York or DC. The rising oceans had already wiped out major parts of the city, and a lot that remained was rapidly decaying into Wasteland status. The rain was incessant.
A few days was all it took to convince Eric that we would be just as bad off moving there as we would staying in Greenwich. At least here, we still had the infr
astructure in New York in case anything major happened.
He confessed this to me at dinner, thinking I’d be upset that we weren’t moving. In truth, I would’ve been upset if we had. When we got back to the hotel, I realized I didn’t have my Link. I was careless and had probably left it at the restaurant. Well, we obviously couldn’t leave Seattle without it.
We went straight to the police that night and reported it missing. The process to get a new permanent one at Olympia Citizen Registration was much more streamlined back then. Even so, it still took three days, despite the fact that we reported the Link almost immediately and the police were able to track it within an hour.
They caught the offender, who admitted to picking it out of my pocket at the restaurant. His public defender claimed he was insane, but the judge sentenced him to two months of LSC. He’d already racked up so much time from previous offenses that it put him past his life expectancy. He was immediately executed and his implant activated. We were invited to watch the process, which we weren’t allowed to refuse. It was a requirement of the sentencing.
“Given his youth,” the judge confided in us just before the lethal injection was given, “he’ll be sent to guard the Olympia Power Plant. They had another near meltdown last week, so they’ll be needing replacement CUs.”
We weren’t really supposed to be told any of this, but the judge somehow found out Eric had once been in the Omegaman Corps.
After we were released, Eric took me straight back to the hotel, where we packed up and came straight home.
We got out just before the outbreak hit Seattle.
“Your Link cannot be located in the Stream,” the voice says, accusing.
“I don’t know what happened to it,” I say to the room, hoping they don’t have biometric capabilities. They’d know in a second I’m lying. My heart must be racing. “Whoever stole it must’ve destroyed it.”
“Destruction of a personal Link is a class seven misdemeanor,” the voice informs me.
“I don’t know what that means.” Am I being accused of something?
“A replacement fee of three hundred and forty six dollars will be levied in the next taxation cycle. If you cannot pay this amount within ninety days of receiving notice, three hundred and forty six hours will be added to your Life Service Commitment.”
One hour for every dollar. I quickly do the math: almost fifteen days.
Eric will pay it, of course.
“The interrogation will proceed shortly. Please direct your attention to the screen in front of you. You are allowed only one break every three hours, during which you are not permitted to leave this room.”
Not leave?
“You must complete the entire examination, answering each question as thoroughly as you are able to in the allotted time. Failure to do so will add hours to your LSC. This interrogation will take approximately six hours and twelve minutes, after which you will be free to return to your home. If the examination requirements are satisfied, you will be assigned a temporary Link upon departure. This device will provide you access only to the Media and Government Streams. You must return here in seven days to exchange it for your permanent replacement and for recoding.”
“How do I—”
“The examination begins now.”
Chapter 5
I still feel naked, even with the temporary replacement Link they’ve given me. Naked and unconnected.
And wiped out. The examination was grueling. I don’t know if it was a whole thousand questions like everyone says it is, but it had to be close. The questions were both on-screen as well as verbal, asked by that faceless, nameless, sexless voice. The same questions over and over again. Backwards and forwards, twisted around, reworded, all trying to catch me in an inconsistency.
I can only assume I didn’t contradict myself. I don’t think I triggered any warnings. All I got at the end was, “This interview is now concluded. You may pick up your temporary Link in the lobby. Your code is tau one sigma. You have five minutes to exit the building.”
I need to pee badly, but I don’t stop. I get to the lobby and tell the clerk my code. She hands over the Link and scans my implant. “Return in a week for your permanent Link,” she says. She sounds tired. Her eyes don’t even seem to focus on me, but rather at some invisible object ten feet behind me and slightly over my left shoulder. I doubt she’d even be able to describe me five minutes after I’ve left.
The first thing I do after hopping onto the bus back to Greenwich is try to ping Ash with the new Link, but it’s just as I’d been told: the interpersonal communication function is disabled. I can’t send or receive messages. I can only connect to two Streams: Media and Government.
I flip to Media. Nobody ever connects to Government.
Survivalist is playing. It’s the supposedly live feed of The Game straight from Gameland, but everyone suspects the footage is both edited and doctored. All in the name of entertainment. For example, there have been times when the video shows rain when there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and sunshine when it’s pouring down. You’d think Arc Entertainment would do a better job of syncing something as obvious as the weather.
Despite the show’s popularity, I’m not a big fan. Why would I want to sit in front of a screen passively watching someone else play a game when I could be the one playing, even if the games we have access to are poorly rendered renditions with limited possibilities rather than real-time interactive proxies with endless outcomes?
The bus is full for the hour-long ride, and the empty seat next to me is soon filled by a young woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties.
“Ooh,” she says, glancing over my shoulder. “Is that Survivalist? I’m hopelessly addicted to that show, but I promised myself I wouldn’t watch it at all this week. If I can make it through the week, then I give myself a reward.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I get hooked into it so easily that I forget the time and the next thing I know I’ve burned dinner, or it’s way past my bedtime, or I’m late for work. My boss has already put me on notice. Twice. He likes me, though, so I doubt he’ll fire me.”
I lower the Link and give her a half-smile. “I was just surfing.” But she looks disappointed and turns away.
I have to roll my eyes. She won’t watch Survivalist on her own Link, but it’s perfectly okay for her to sneak peeks on mine? It’s like being on a diet and then sneaking someone else’s lunch out of the fridge and rationalizing that it doesn’t count.
I shove the thing into my pocket and lean my head against the window and pretend to fall asleep. But the roads are too bumpy and the glass rattles against the window frame. The constant banging is giving me a sore on my forehead, so I sit up and stare at the back of the man sitting in the seat directly in front of me. He has a mole on his neck shaped like an exclamation mark, as if drawing attention to itself.
My thoughts drift and I think about Kelly. I wonder if he’s on his way back from LI with Jake. I hope he’s safe.
“I’ve been watching that new Player,” the woman beside me says, interrupting my thoughts. “What a hunk. I bet he was a hottie when he was still alive.”
I look over at her and frown. She’s not in her mid-twenties, as I’d originally thought. More like early twenties. If that.
“Have you seen him?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I shake my head. I’ve heard of people getting attached to Players, but not like that. Maybe that’s what people her age do, but to me it’s just creepy. I mean, Players are dead people, even if they are reanimated and controlled by the living. No matter how you slice it, it’s kind of morbid.
“It’s almost supernatural,” she gushes confidentially. “He just started playing last week and already people are saying he’s going to outlast any Player that ever played The Game and anything they might throw at him. He’s already taken out over forty other Players.” She snaps her fingers. “Like that.”
“That’s…interesting,” I s
ay.
“Yup. They say when he was alive, he was one of the world’s best Operators himself. It’s like he still can remember all the ins and outs of Gameland and can control himself.”
“They can’t remember!” I say, chuffing.
She gives me a pained look, as if I’ve just insulted her. A couple people sitting close by look over at me. I feel my face get hot.
“I mean, it’s probably just that he died young and strong and he’s freshly conscripted,” I say. “CUs are basically just robots. In fact, if it wasn’t for the implants, they’d just go around all the time looking for people to eat instead doing the things their Operators make them do in The Game.”
“Nobody’s denying that, honey. But it sure makes it more entertaining, don’t you think, when they’re actually worth looking at? I mean, who really wants to cheer on some old, wrinkled, half-decayed zombie all the time?”
Someone across the aisle nods in agreement. The woman leans in closer to me and whispers in my ear. “There’s a rumor at work that he was a Volunteer.”
She means a person who voluntarily sacrifices himself to get into The Game in exchange for money. It’s illegal, of course, but I can’t remember ever hearing about anyone actually getting busted for it. The rich have ways to skirt the laws. They believe that when the poor make sacrifices for money it only improves society. The poor, of course, believe otherwise.
Still, it makes me wonder how much of the buy-in and the proceeds from The Game actually make it to the Player’s family. Even a small percentage would seem like a fortune to mine. But, then again, he’d already be rich if he was an Operator. Why would he volunteer?
“I bet he really did,” Tanya whispers. “I bet he probably cost his Operator at least three million.” She leans away again and says in a normal voice, “But don’t take my word for it. You should check him out yourself. I think he’s scheduled to play this afternoon.”
GAMELAND Episodes 1-2: Deep Into the Game + Failsafe (S. W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND) Page 19
