by Waiting for the Machines to Fall Asleep- The Best New Science Fiction from Sweden (retail) (epub)
If her arena design neutralizes sight, hearing and smell I wondered how she'd be able to get around in a place like that with only touch. Then I realized I was being stupid – if she's designed the arena she can pre-program any other tools and aids she needs as well and for her use only. We'd be completely helpless.
I searched high and low for such hidden tools or augmentations but didn't find any, which was a bit odd. But that doesn't mean they're not there somewhere.
So what was my solution? Well, it's pretty clever, even if I say so myself. First I reset the virtual electro-stunners to eject the player from the game without causing physical harm. Secondly, I redesigned the arena parameters so that they work better with my senses – primarily sight. Thirdly, if any player tries to use tools or enhancements they will automatically lose the game. And to make sure she doesn't just undo my handiwork, I've programmed the Mind not to permit any further changes until after the game takes place and changed all Administrator passwords so my instructions can't be overridden. Sorted!
Hah! I'd like to see her face when she arrives in-game and discovers what I've done. And thanks to my intervention, I will see it too.
Game day 31 December – Player 3 Game Log
It's time at last. Bit nervous, but okay.
I look in on Sam before leaving and then catch the public transport carriage that will take me to the Club House for my pre-game "medical". I'm the only passenger.
I didn't sleep well last night. Had the same dream over and over. The Club Secretary kept breaking into my room, yelling: "Get up, get up, the game started weeks ago!" She was in terrible shape: bruised and unkempt, eyes wild and darkly shadowed. I had to force her out each time.
Disturbing. Perhaps I should have taken something, but I didn't want to do anything to interfere with my performance today.
I suppose I was anxious about sleeping in?
Never mind. Got to focus on the game now.
My body feels sort of numb and the sounds of the transport are muted. Lack of sleep I expect. I can still taste the dental-foam I used on my teeth after breakfast. It has a really overpowering mint flavor that's making me feel ill. I think I'll change brands.
Ah, there it is, the low streamlined dome just appearing on the horizon behind the storm-dikes. We'll be at the station in less than five minutes. Feeling really drowsy, but we're nearly there ...
The transport just stopped and woke me in the process. Can't believe I actually nodded off on game day! I was dreaming too; Club Secretary again. She was clinging to the outside of the transport, hammering on the windows shouting at me like last night, only I couldn't hear what she was saying. She looked mad.
The station is deserted, most of the lights dimmed. Really strange. I thought there'd be a delegation from the Committee to meet us.
Feeling slightly surreal as I alight from the transport and move to the lifts across a platform striped in shadows. My footsteps are dead in the dark like I'm walking on thick carpet. Behind me the transport door swishes shut, motors purring into life as the single carriage slips away. Everything seems too quiet and I remember that soon I won't be able to hear, feel or smell anything.
I press the lift button hardly aware of the texture of the up-symbol beneath my index finger. The lift arrives and the doors open silently.
Inside the Club House something feels wrong. There's still nobody around. I make my way to the medical bay, my footsteps so quiet they keep fading out altogether. One moment I can just about hear them then they're silent.
I put my hand out to the ident-pad by the medical bay door. It reads my palm-print and the status light flickers green, but I don't feel the usual electro-tingle. In fact I can't feel anything. Have the game parameters already kicked in? How can they? I haven't had my "medical" yet.
On a whim I lick the tip of my index finger and wince at the near overpowering taste of salt and grime.
Taste and sight – has it started early?
The medical bay is in shadow. The only illumination comes from dimmed night lights set low in the walls. Just inside the doorway I stop and listen. I can't hear anything, like my ears have been plugged. I sniff. Can't smell anything either or hear myself inhale. I run my fingers over the surface of the wall and feel nothing.
Yes it's started.
This isn't what I programmed into the Club Mind. Has somebody else has been in there? I just don't get it, that shouldn't be possible. I should be feeling anxiety in the pit of my stomach or fear constricting my chest, but my body simply doesn't register anymore, disquiet has become a purely cerebral matter.
Suddenly the Club Secretary is there before me, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes are wide, but staring blindly ahead and she's saying something I can't hear.
I shout back, but have no idea if I'm making any sound because I can't hear myself. There's no guarantee she can hear me anyway. Then I remember the electro-stunners and glance down at my hands. They're empty.
Is she armed?!
My head snaps up. I'm expecting to see a stun pistol pointing at me, but she's gone. Vanished.
None of this makes any sense and where's Player 2? I realize I haven't actually seen him since before the game details first started to come out.
I'm having some very discomforting thoughts.
There's a bed on the far side of the medical bay. Maybe I should go and lie on it, but I really don't want to. On the other hand if I do, things might start working the way they're supposed to.
I lie down. Close my eyes. When I open them again the medical bay is gone. I'm in a bright corridor with regular lines and perfectly smooth white surfaces. Relief. This is my arena.
If I could hear there would be the constant static of white noise. If I could smell there would be the overpowering odor of necrosis. If I could feel to touch, then the floors, walls and ceilings would be as smooth and featureless as glass.
I can see and I can taste.
I glance down at my hands. In the right hand I'm clutching a pistol-
formed device; my electro-stunner. Okay. Now I need to find the others, take them down and win this game.
Not feeling your body is very strange. I'm reduced to a disembodied field of vision connected to a free floating tongue. I set off, aware of motion only thanks to the visible passage of my surroundings. The taste of my own mouth is overpowering. I have to keep looking to reassure myself that my body is still there and realize that when I see the others and fire I won't know if the signal has gone from brain to hand until I see them fall.
I reach a bend in the corridor and peek around the edge. Another perfectly white corridor stretches away before me. It's empty. I proceed, glancing down every so often to make sure the electro-stunner is grasped the way I want. It is.
Another corner and another furtive peek. Somebody's there in a quilted Club jacket, hood up with their back to me. Without thinking I shoot. The darts flash into my field of vision and strike the wall to spin past the person.
Missed!
Panic seizes me – but the person doesn't react. They just continue to stand perfectly still with their back to me as if they haven't noticed. I realize that I haven't even checked to see if my weapon is single or multi-shot. Idiot!!! I might have blown my chances already! I glance at the gun. There's a magazine protruding from the underside with the words six-charges printed on the side. Good.
I raise the weapon again, glancing from the pistol to the target several times to make sure it is pointing where it should be. Then the person turns round. It's the Club Secretary, her sightless eyes staring straight at and through me. One of her hands is on the wall, perhaps to steady her. I suppose that means she has touch sense. Her other hand is clutching a pistol like mine but it's not even pointing in my direction.
I don't wait to find out what other sense she was given. The electro darts punch through the fabric of her jacket and she goes down, her back arching as her body is wracked with spasms.
I approach her, crouching over her prone form. Sh
e looks dead, really dead and I become afraid. What if my intervention hasn't worked and I've killed her? I put a hand to her throat before remembering I can't feel anything, let alone her pulse. And anyway she isn't real.
It's just an avatar, stupid!
I keep telling myself that, but I'm not fully convinced. Other doubts start to surface. Why is she even here? According to my theory she designed the arena to cripple Player 2 and myself. But if that were the case she would have needed to employ tools or augmentations resulting in her elimination. Yet here she is, obviously unable to navigate through the arena in anything like an effective manner. In other words no enhancements.
If I'd been able to feel more than just my taste buds firing off, my mouth would no doubt have been dry. I search her body and take her pistol, the weirdness of not being able to feel disorienting me further. I have to follow my every movement visually to make sure I've done it right.
I find a piece of folded paper in one of her pockets. When I unfold it I discover that it contains a note.
22 December
Fellow Player,
If you're reading this then I am probably out, perhaps worse. Something is very wrong with this game.
Somebody interfered with the Club-Mind. I don't know who, how or even when. I can no longer gain Admin access. But I realized yesterday that I was, in some way, already in-game and now suspect that I might have been for some time. Perhaps we all have? Not sure but I've tried to warn you both. Couldn't reach either of you.
Beware and good luck.
PLAYER 1
Club Secretary.
How long have we been in-game? My thoughts are out of control for a while. The note is dated nine days ago. I'm reminded again that the capacity for fear remains when your body is completely numb.
I sit down next to her, an electro-stunner in each hand, glancing first one way along the corridor and then the other while trying to make sense of the situation.
I got sight, so if Player 2 appears he won't be able to see me, and whichever way he approaches, I'll be ready for him. Right? But maybe not. Maybe Player 2 is behind the manipulations? Could be he has any senses he wants ... I can't be certain of anything.
How long have we been in-game?
What if we've been playing since before I went into the Mind? That might mean I didn't actually manipulate the Mind at all; I'd have been interacting with some sort of game feature posing as the Mind and everything since would simply be part of the game. Perhaps my weird dreams and even the Secretary's note are all just ingenious gambits?
How long?
A memory surfaces. I was drinking coffee with the Secretary. Afterwards I came over strange, almost like I blacked out for a moment, only I'm not sure I actually did. At the time I didn't know what caused it.
It happened before we were allotted our senses.
That long?
So what's the point and how do you win? When I programmed the Mind ... but it wasn't the Mind or was it?
I decide to find Player 2. It's all I've got left.
One featureless smooth white corridor follows another, all of them empty. Before long I'm weary as well as afraid. The monotony of my surroundings makes me feel worse. I've only myself to blame of course, this is my design.
Just as I'm beginning to give up hope I find him. Player 2 is sitting mid corridor with his back to me, slumped against a wall. And I just know he's dead. None of the subtle signs of animation that we take for granted are present; total stillness. Like a dummy. His pistol is beside him on the floor, blue-white sparks arcing in a wriggling line from one dart to the other.
I approach slowly, dreading what I am going to find but compelled to investigate. His shoulders are slumped, head forward on his chest, legs at an odd angle. I place a hand on his shoulder, still clutching my stun pistol. I can't feel anything of course, but there's no reaction to me. Then I grasp hold of the cloth of his Club jacket and tug gently until he falls over backwards.
His face is creamy white mottled with dark blue patches where blood has pooled beneath the skin. He's been dead hours, maybe longer.
Just an avatar, I tell myself, but the knowledge doesn't help.
There's a note pinned to the front of his jacket. I snatch it up, open it.
Hello Player 3 Are you enjoying my game?
PLAYER 1 got Smell and Touch.
PLAYER 2 got Touch and Hearing.
PLAYER 3 got Sight and Taste.
But what did Player X get?
PLAYER X? There is no Player X this year, all our members are seeded. There've been no newbies in the last 18 months ... apart from the Mind.
Newbies. Player X. Noob ... the Mind!
My thoughts go into freefall as new words materialize on the paper:
PLAYER X got omniscience and a sense of foul play.
Happy gaming!
Yours,
NOOB
I drop the paper and ready my pistols, glancing first ahead and then behind me.
What form will it take? It could be anywhere or anything, the very walls, maybe. The lights flicker and go out and my world becomes one of thought, fear and taste; rank and unpleasant.
Nothing left to do but wait.
"Waste of Time" – Alexandra Nero
"This is a waste of time," M said as we poured the buckets of timewaste from the Entertainment Center into the large wastebins out back. The truck would be here any moment to take the bins to the Drain and we still had several buckets to empty, so I hurried back.
I bent down and grabbed the handle of a rusty bucket. As I straightened my legs I felt that familiar stretch at the bottom of my back, where the syntheti-skin had hardened. I shouldn't have skipped that last service.
The handle slipped from my grip. The timewaste sloshed about in the bucket as I lost my balance and fell. I hit the ground, the bucket landing beside me with a heavy thud. Thick oily liquid swooshed into the air and cascaded down my face.
Reality flickered.
Darkness, then a series of sharp, white flashes followed by darkness. I took a deep breath.
I was a ray of white light.
I was split into a rainbow of colors.
I was a prism.
Their lost time, their memories, rushed through me. I saw small fingers held tight within large hands. I saw fits of rage being calmed. I heard arguments that flared up and were settled. I saw bruised knees and heard cries comforted by soft voices. I saw tears being wiped from sticky red cheeks. I heard muffled complaints and saw smiles that curled at the edges of mouths. I saw a bed, sheets tangled, and a chest rising and falling with the steady breaths of deep sleep. I felt warm fingers squeezing at the nape of my neck, my lips kissing a sweaty forehead.
All those moments of love. All those irreplaceable moments of life. Lost.
Once the effect wore off I opened my eyes and gasped for air, my fingers clawing the ground. The syntheti-skin was worn down to the metal bone. I tried to sit up, but my chest was tight and my head jammed with images.
M handed me a bottle of refreshener, but I couldn't grab hold of it. M bent down and held the faucet to my lips. The salty liquid ran down my throat and my muscles relaxed.
"Such a waste of time," M said. "Such a waste."
M looked toward the Entertainment Center.
"For what? There they are. Connected to the web and to each other. Casual relationships, shallow affairs. And all the while their children are in the Care Centers, herded around by the likes of us."
I closed my eyes. Waste of all kinds – paper, plastic, metal – would go through the process of being returned to raw materials in order to shape new things. Their time would not.
"You'd better be careful now," M said.
"I know."
"Almost looked like you dropped that bucket on purpose."
"I didn't," I said.
"Sure."
"I mean it."
"I'm just saying. We both know what happens if you're exposed to too much timewaste."
&nb
sp; I pulled my legs up to my chin and turned my head. The bucket lay empty beside me. Pools of timewaste reflected the light from the Entertainment Center in shades of yellow and blue.
I know it's not good for me. I know.
But still.
Still.
"The Damien Factor" – Johannes Pinter
"The mind is a treacherous and dangerous place, you don't visit it if you don't know exactly what you're there for."
Dr. Kirkegaard shuts the door to the separation room while he glances through his thick glasses at the two-heads-taller Lucas who is standing next to him. With a sharp hissing sound, like vacuum pressure, the door closes tight and shuts the world out.
Lucas takes a deep breath when the room's muted atmosphere overwhelms him, and he hears Kirkegaard do the same – the difference to the corridor they just left is distinct. The room is completely silent.
Kirkegaard smiles. "I do it too, every time: take that extra breath. It's as if you need to confirm that you're alive."
Lucas looks around in the small room, his right eye squinting slightly because of a scar running through the eyebrow down the eyelid. The separation room they stand in is about two by three meters, with three meters to the ceilings, all surfaces covered with a dull, rubber-like material. The room is empty, just two simple hangers on one wall. In addition to the door they just passed through there's a similar door on the opposite wall, both are covered with the same dull rubber material as the walls. The only light source is a spotlight in the ceiling, casting flat shadows down the men's faces.
The doctor claps his hands. Lucas watches in fascination: the sharp sound stays between the doctor's hands – nothing fills the atmosphere or bounces back from the walls.
"All sounds disappear into the walls," says the doctor. He reaches out and runs his wrinkled fingers over the gray rubber wall. The fingertips leave a trail that slowly closes up again. "It consists of ridges with sound-absorbing channels between."
